An Invocation in Every Breath
by Rabbitprint
Summary: Pre-game, Ichimoku Ren/Susabi, spoilers for character backstories. Ren isn't the first spirit Susabi's encountered who's been scarred by the selfishness of humans. But he is the first one to make Susabi afraid of doing the same.
1. Chapter 1

It was his dragon who noticed the difference, not him. A small pack of _furaribi_ had been plaguing a string of villages to the west of Kyoto, near the San'in region, and their antics had begun to spread from their usual riverside lurkings all the way out into the fields. Similarly, they had grown bold enough to start creeping out during the early evenings, rather than wait for nighttime to properly fall. An uncommon shift in their behavior, but one easily attributed to any number of causes, including simple population density.

 _Furaribi_ were not typically a threat on their own, if left with plenty of space to forage and clear skies to roam. The greatest risk was the fire that enveloped their floating bodies, and that was what the farmers rightfully feared. It had been a dry enough summer so far that the grass was sparse and crackling, already struggling for water. The farmers' prayers had clamoured all the way up to Takamagahara, conveyed dutifully by the local god - as well as a number of other deities, who had been petitioned for everything from rain to spare _onmyoji._

It was hardly vital work for Susabi. Normally, he would have delegated the task and moved on to more important business, but the situation had attracted his attention as an excellent instructional opportunity for some of the younger gods who had little experience with the human world. The danger was limited; the area could be contained, even if the _furaribi_ got further out of hand. The solution itself was easy. The villagers simply had to remember to perform the proper ceremonies for any deceased relatives who had been neglected, and then the _furaribi_ could be ushered on to the Underworld for eventual reincarnation.

But in one particular patch of farmland, where the rivers bent their way north towards the distant ocean, the villagers had been spared any mischief. No _furaribi_ haunted the fields there, even despite the convenience of the location. It wasn't for any virtue on the village's part - the spirits still slipped up and down the riverbanks - but none of them seemed willing to go any further, deflected neatly away from any risk of human civilization. Susabi's dragon had nudged him towards the incongruity; Susabi had been about to skip over the area without a second glance, assuming this village to be as equally guilty as the rest.

Now he wondered if he had found the true culprits after all.

 _Some bargain has been struck_ , he decided, surveying the riverbank from the safety of a nearby hill. The local inhabitants must have done something to incite the other _furaribi_ upon their neighbors, or paid someone with enough power to do so. Likely they were hoping to send their own ghosts to haunt them as well. Human machinations, plain and simple, and - unfortunately - all too common.

Verdict assumed, Susabi was about to advance into the village to see what rumors he could pick up - but, as distracted as he was, his dragon caught the presence of another of its kind before he did. It hissed in surprise and then rose to full display as the sounds of patient footsteps made their way through the forest, rustling branches and fallen twigs without any attempt at stealth. Here and there, the voice of small bells jingled, high-pitched chimes as delicate as birdsong.

It was not simply a dragon, but a yōkai as well who came into view through the trees at a leisurely pace: a spirit who was slight of frame, white-haired and golden-horned, and whose dragon made equally wary noises as it faced off against Susabi. The stranger lifted his hand immediately to calm it; then he inclined his head towards Susabi's direction, making no signs of approaching closer.

"Did you also come for the _furaribi_?" he called out. His voice was smooth and even, holding only curiosity and no fear. "If your intention is to encourage them, I am afraid I'll have to ask you to refrain. It's been hard enough to keep these ones contained."

Susabi took his time in answering, dissecting what he could sense from the other spirit's presence. Though the yōkai did not have power crackling visibly along his fingertips, that did not mean he lacked the capacity to summon it; the fact that he had a dragon possessively circling above him meant he had the ability to command one, if nothing else. The feel of his spiritual energy was subtle - easy to miss, a wellspring of strength that held itself back and restrained everything around it as well. All the same, there was no sting of malice, and Susabi chose to reply with equal nonchalance. "I had wondered why this village stood out among the others. I was about to investigate the residents for conspiracy."

To his credit, the yōkai caught his meaning immediately. A faint, wry smile flitted across his face. "The reason is nothing so complex. I was able to deflect these _furaribi_ here from going further into the fields, but that is the entire story. May I have a look at the river as well, or do you wish for privacy instead?"

Shaking his head - and masking his surprise for even being asked - Susabi relinquished his vantage point to give the other spirit plenty of space. "You're only adding to the trouble by protecting these people," he pointed out as the yōkai joined him, padding forward from the treeline. "If one village is seen as immune, I am hardly the only creature who will assume foul play."

"If I could protect them all, I would." The answer could have been flippant, but the yōkai's expression was somber. He paused at the crest of the hill, all his attention now upon the distant river, where the _furaribi_ were already starting to congregate. "But if these inhabitants are spared from mischief, then they will at least have the option to share their reserves with others."

"Assuming they do not extort their neighbors for a higher price than the crops are worth, or withhold their supplies out of fear of shortage. _And_ assuming their neighbors do not try to seize their fields by force." Susabi's dragon was huffing under its breath, mirroring the uncertainty of the yōkai's golden one, not yet understanding if it should attack or defend. "You may think you're aiding them, but you're merely changing the methods of how they'll harm their own kind."

He expected a pointlessly optimistic answer, but the stranger's next words stopped him short. It wasn't the voice of someone who had never seen the consequences of thoughtless acts masked as good intentions. It contained all the exhaustion of a person who had looked down the entire length of their lives and had seen the inevitable failure at the end - and yet was committed anyway.

"I know," the yōkai said, simply. He glanced back from the river, his golden eye catching the waning sunlight. He waited until Susabi was looking directly at him, and then repeated the words resolutely, though no less weariness. "I know."

"Then why?"

The other spirit lifted a hand to soothe his dragon again, gently stroking the creature's scales. "It may be that humans choose poorly many times," he admitted, "but if we do not even give them the chance to begin with, then how will they recognize moments of choice when they come? My efforts here don't need to save them. I only need to buy enough time until the villagers are able to save themselves on their own." Dropping his hand, he laced his fingers together patiently, like a pale lattice shielding his stomach. "And even should they never reach that point, no matter how we look at it, there will still be people today who will go hungry. They will be frightened. A heart that struggles to find generosity in even daily circumstances has it that much harder under duress. They are not making wise choices now," he continued, as soft and relentless as wind running against stone, "but all that means is that we must find ways to help them through the present moment until they can."

He bowed low then, respectfully, before Susabi could gather enough of a reply to counterattack on principle. "I do not mean disrespect, my lord. If there is a purpose here that I am interfering with, I will yield. I have no desire to start a quarrel with you."

 _And yet, here you stand obstructing me regardless_ , Susabi thought, narrowing his eyes. This spirit was no idealistic foundling. Nor was he a braggart, intent on battle for the sake of self-serving glory. "My advice is to either extend your protection to the other villages, or remove it entirely."

"And those are my only choices, my lord?"

"That," Susabi declared, "or accept the knowledge that they will twist your kindness into hate, and take the responsibility thereof."

They stood there in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Susabi cleared his throat, forced to acknowledge the position the yōkai was in: to have another spirit show up and start giving orders without any idea of authority, or intention. If their positions were reversed, he would be reluctant too. "I am Susabi, an emissary from Takamagahara," he announced. "I am here on business for the _amatsu-kami_."

The stranger bowed again, and deeply. "I have heard of you, my lord. Other spirits have spoken highly of your prowess. You grace me with your time."

Formality and deference to the hilt, and with all the right words in place; not typical for most yōkai, who generally resented any interference from Takamagahara. "And yours?" he replied, resisting the urge to soften his defenses, defused by a creature who seemed less and less inclined to aggression with each passing moment.

"Ren," the yōkai answered quietly. "These days, my name is Ichimoku Ren."

"Is your home here? Is that why you protect it? Or do you have prey which you are watching over?"

"Neither," Ichimoku Ren replied, which was surprising; even though the _furaribi_ were largely harmless, they were not easy to reroute either, and few spirits had such energy to spare on a whim. "I come from near here, along the border of San'in and San'you, but my home has not been fixed in one place for many years. I have been traveling for a while. If this is the domain of another spirit, then I am afraid I am intruding. Is why you have come here, my lord?"

His dragon was restless, coiling and uncoiling around its sphere, mirroring Susabi's own internal uncertainty. Now that the yōkai had come closer, it was easier to evaluate the mundane details of his appearance, analyzing it for other conclusions. His hair wasn't as pale as Susabi had thought at first impression, fading to a sky-blue by the time it reached his waist. His visible eye was like a gold coin set to glitter in a pool of ink; his clothes were tidy, but clearly worn from the road, and the bells on his cloak prevented him from any stealth. Most interestingly, there were no obvious weapons, though that hardly defined any spirit's ability to be a threat.

 _Some of the most dangerous creatures in the world are the ones which cause you to choose your own death willingly_ , Susabi reminded himself darkly. Aloud, he stated, "I have assigned three trainees to come and observe the reactions of the humans here to this situation. While normally I would not force you to halt your efforts, I would ask you to leave before they arrive, to prevent any misunderstandings."

"Will they chase the remaining _furaribi_ away?"

Susabi paused; the gods were meant only to watch what had happened, and make note of how the villagers themselves had caused the _furaribi_ to multiply through sheer neglect. It was an object lesson - not a rescue mission. "That is not intended to be their primary task."

"Then, with all due respect, my lord," Ichimoku Ren replied, "I will stay."

The refusal was not unexpected. If the spirit were so easily cowed, he would have left immediately upon seeing Susabi's presence. No signs of an incoming attack were visible yet, but the yōkai's spiritual power was undeniable - and the way that he met Susabi's eyes without fear spoke of confidence, of a strength that did not need to advertise itself, and yet also knew of the battles it invited by not grandstanding. Ichimoku Ren had surely been challenged before by other spirits who had been taken in by his apparent docility. Susabi was not foolish enough to fall for the same trap.

Having a yōkai of any power in the area would certainly distract his subordinates from their lessons, if not completely derail them.

"Very well," he relented at last, regulating the lesson to another day. "I shall have them disperse the infestations, rather than wait for the mortals to do it first. _All_ of the infestations. Will that satisfy you?"

The yōkai smiled, and - just like that - all the exhaustion washed itself away itself from his features, as if Susabi's acceptance had been so unexpected as to be a source of delight. Then, without any regard for the muddiness of the hillside, Ichimoku Ren gathered his robes neatly and went to his knees as gracefully as a fan folding inwards, touching his palms precisely to the ground as he bowed with even more formality than before. It wasn't low enough to be a grovel, but was still deep enough to show respect to a superior: a perfect inclination of humility.

"Thank you, Lord Susabi."

* * *

The issue of Ichimoku Ren lingered as Susabi returned to Takamagahara, parceling out the revised instructions and sitting back to consider what had just occurred.

Ichimoku Ren's power was only a small part of the problem. His experience was clear. So were his opinions. This was no inexperienced, naive spirit like Miketsu, who thought that simply throwing sufficient kindness and goodwill at the world would fix it - as if the hearts of humans were simply dry earth that needed enough rain, and once they had been watered, would generate self-sustaining rivers all on their own. A desert would turn to dust again once the rain had moved past; it would drink and drink, and never change its nature. Far more work was required to turn sand into rich soil.

Even then - without enforced structure, without constant oversight and rules - the desert would still creep back in slowly again, obliterating all that work as if it had never been. Permanent change required effort on multiple levels, starting from the structure of the earth itself, not simply the weather above it. Every factor mattered, from the plants and contours of the land, to the water levels beneath it - instead of simply pouring down rain until even the clouds themselves were drained completely, and humans were still no different.

Ichimoku Ren had clearly learned that lesson and several more over the years. To show submission was as dangerous in the spirit world as for mortals, where a good bluff might be the only thing keeping you from being gutted and left to die - and yet, he hadn't hesitated to kneel before Susabi as a petitioner. He hadn't flattered, hadn't cozied up to Susabi. He hadn't lost his temper; he'd had a reply to every one of Susabi's points, without having to resort to empty promises of virtue, ideals that shattered in the face of reality.

He'd fought, clearly. He'd fought for years, both physically and with words, and had still stood there in front of an emissary of Takamagahara and calmly implied that he would fight yet _again_ , to the death, for a minor village that was filled with complete strangers.

Ichimoku Ren was dangerous. Not because he gave off any hint of aggression, but because of his _lack_ of it. If anything, the strongest impression that lingered from their encounter was that of a mountain or a vast ocean: old and weary, but a force of nature that knew its own strength well enough that it no longer needed to brag. Dangerous. But not a threat.

Not physically. Not yet.

Susabi was still wrestling with his conclusions when the trainees returned from the mortal world a week later, and Susabi realized with a blink that he hadn't sent anyone along with them to confirm that the yōkai had kept his word. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him to doubt the arrangement; he hadn't reviewed the vast number of ways that Ichimoku might have doubled back to ambush the three younger gods.

Instead, his thoughts had been centered around the perfect, graceful bow Ichimoku had given while on his knees, the willing vulnerability and gratitude that he had offered up like a gift. The yōkai's cloak had swept to either side of his body like the spread wings of a fallen bird. His arms had been bare, unadorned. As if bound by a spelled command, Susabi's mind had kept returning to that image, to the sight of Ichimoku's effortless gesture of surrender even though the yōkai had been the one to win - to the battle that had not been bought with words, but with the willingness to die.

To the way that Ichimoku's hair had slid away from the pale nape of his neck, exposing it for either a hand to touch, or a sword.

* * *

He hunted Ichimoku out on purpose the second time, under the justification of wanting to keep tabs on any rogue yōkai who had an active interest in involving themselves with human settlements. It was a reasonable precaution; there were enough spirits who regularly sought out easier sources of food, or who simply wanted a change in entertainment. But Ichimoku didn't fit either of those categories yet, and for that reason - Susabi told himself - the yōkai warranted attention.

His instruments helped him chart the yōkai's path well in advance, now that he knew where to start from. Ichimoku appeared to wander at random, but would inevitably gravitate towards any human population when one got close enough; sometimes he would simply observe, and other times, step in quietly if there seemed to be an issue of distress, supernatural or not. Other spirits drew Ichimoku's attention as well, nests of predatory _nobusuma_ and _chimi_ , though he would often leave them untouched if no humans were nearby and there had been no conflicts.

Finally, as Ichimoku's travels planted him several miles east of a cluster of rice paddies - and in the path of several _bakeneko_ who had previously been sowing havoc among other crops - Susabi decided to visit again.

The reek of impurity hit him instantly upon setting foot in the mortal world. Hostility upon hostility had congealed into layers of negative energy that radiated from every corner where humans had built their homes, simmering inside communities who had long gone blind to their own biases. There were open hatreds - the willingness to kill, to shun, to steal and harm - and the subtle ones as well, with scorn and mockery paving the way towards greater degradations, people slain in their minds first before it ever reached their bodies. The miasma dizzied Susabi for a moment before he could take a deep breath to stabilize himself; he knew the shock would pass.

Whenever he came to the human world, it was the same every time.

He could still hear the piping voice of Miketsu claiming she was ready to go down to help humanity, she was _ready_. _None_ of them were ready. Takamagahara was a sanctuary, even with the routine squabbles of the gods; the air was pure, the land was clean, and the greatest threats usually arose from family arguments or violations of etiquette. So many gods were naive enough to think that if they simply performed kind acts, that others would be actively inspired to do the same - or worse, that simply seeking to _be_ kind was the end of all goals, instead of recognizing that that intention led to self-deceptive loops, where being able to think of one's self as _a good person_ took precedence over what your actions actually involved.

Wanting to be a kind _person_ was different from wanting to do kind _things_ ; the first invited a focus on the ego, and the second invited abuse. Both were easy to take advantage of. Neither inspired true change in hearts that were already corrupt.

But Ichimoku hadn't said any of that. He hadn't talked about himself as a savior. Only what he'd hoped the villagers themselves would achieve someday on their own - only about buying time for people who wouldn't even know he'd intervened on their behalf.

A wasted effort. More harm than help. Even Ichimoku would have to give up someday, if he wanted to survive.

Susabi shook off his thoughts with a frown.

This time around, Ichimoku had already set up camp in the sparser woods overlooking the fields, far enough away from the village that chances were low that any farmers would come across him. The hills sloped gently westward, channeling riverwater down to where the rice fields would be waiting. He glanced up when he sensed Susabi's arrival, a smile - unaccountably - brightening his features. His dragon, which had been napping, reared up and made a wary loop in the air before settling down again beside the yōkai's leg, tail flicking as it watched Susabi meaningfully.

"My dragon was lonely." A poor claim, but good enough; Susabi brushed past it before Ichimoku could stop and question. "I see that you're interfering with yet another possible intrusion."

"It _is_ a bad habit of mine," Ichimoku acknowledged, already getting to his feet so that he could make a respectful bow. "But this time, our fellow spirits seem to be daunted by simply knowing I am in the area. Another few days, and they should hopefully move on without conflict. Are you preparing for another lesson, Lord Susabi?"

"Not yet." Pretending to be focused on surveying the area, Susabi offered a formal nod back, and then strode forward until he could see the rice fields in the distance. Neatly stacked in their square tiers, they showed no signs of having been disturbed. "You seem quite practiced at finding ways to place yourself between mortals and potential predators. How long have you been doing this?"

He didn't turn when Ichimoku joined him, bare feet rustling carefully through the grass. The yōkai gave him a wide berth, deferring to both Susabi and his dragon; he coaxed his own to wait beside him, fingers resting reassuringly on its head. "Since I was a god," he replied. "Both before and after."

The revelation snapped a few more pieces into place. "How long ago was that?"

Ichimoku considered for a moment - an understandable struggle for most spirits, tallying seasons against immortality. "Not long," he estimated. "Several generations, as mortals tell it. Long enough to wander." He let his answers pause there, shielding his eye against the sky as he also scanned the fields, and then gave a satisfied nod. "Shall we sit a while in the shade, my lord? The sun is quite beautiful here in the afternoons."

Having the invitation extended first was a relief; Susabi hadn't thought far enough ahead to what he might have done if the yōkai had rejected him outright. "I have time."

Now that he had learned about Ichimoku's nature, the logic around the yōkai continued to unfold smoothly, like a piece of origami unmade crease by crease. Susabi had met other fallen gods in the past, whose shrines had been destroyed through time or disease or war. The ones who had not turned to anger or deception as a source of fuel had been fragile creatures, struggling to sustain themselves without followers to offer them a home. Ichimoku wasn't showing signs of decay - but neither did he seem overflowing with energy. His clothing was faded; his motions were restrained. And underneath it all remained that sense of overwhelming weariness, masquerading so easily as serenity that if Susabi hadn't spent the time arguing with him, he would have thought Ichimoku to be in perfect health.

There were other indicators as well that Susabi noticed as they spoke, signs of old wounds that had simply become part of the spirit's nature, never to further heal. Ichimoku didn't react as quickly to anything on his right side; his hair was long over that half of his face, despite having an intact eye. From what Susabi could see, the pupil seemed to respond properly to the light - though there was something wrong about the color of the iris, something dull and flat about the gold - but the yōkai still turned his head to focus on things with his left.

"What happened to your shrines?" Susabi asked, racking his memory for a god that fit Ichimoku's description. "Or did you have only one?"

The possibility drew a rueful laugh from the yōkai; he shook his head in answer. "Just one. I was never that grand." He inhaled deeply, tilting his head up towards the sky. His hair slid away again, revealing the mystery of his eyes, paired and yet treated so differently. "It was a small one, up in the mountains along San'in-San'you. I was a wind god of a very small village. We did not need much. But one year, the storms came in even worse than usual, and the waters threatened to flood everything away."

Slowly, Ichimoku's fingers closed into loose fists on his thighs. For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression going smooth and empty. Then he made a quick, second shake of his head, one corner of his mouth turning up doggedly into a faint smile.

"An eye was a small price to pay for their survival. Afterwards - well. Afterwards, they no longer needed my assistance. And so, here I am. I chose to stay, rather than fade away. It left me... with some drawbacks."

Susabi felt his own hands clenching on his robes, far tighter than Ichimoku's reaction had been. He shifted his wrists to hide them beneath his sleeves. As sparse as Ichimoku's words were, the truth was clear, wrapped in the self-restraint of everything the yōkai had refused to say out loud.

Ichimoku's village had demanded impossible things from their god. They had begged him for a feat far outside of his powers, to perform on demand even when it was not within his capacity. Then - when Ichimoku had sacrificed part of his very life to try and appease them - they had discarded him, leaving their former god behind to wither away.

A slow death, rather than the quick embrace of the ocean.

A death, nonetheless.

Faced with Susabi's silence, Ichimoku continued briskly, as if he could erase the past through good humor. The spirit's dragon had rolled over to have its flank examined, and Ichimoku was going down it scale by scale with his fingers, checking for any roughness or damage. "At first, as a yōkai, I only sought to protect my village," he explained, gathering back one of his sleeves so that he could stretch his arm down the dragon's length. "But you know how humans end up migrating over the years, marrying into distant families or leaving their old ones behind. I wandered behind them, to make certain they had settled into their new homes. And then, before I knew it, the village itself had changed completely, filled with people who had never been introduced to me as children, and who never had heard of my name." With a firm pat to his dragon's scales, Ichimoku waited until it wriggled over to present its other side. "So I resolved to keep traveling. Everyone is a villager in some fashion, after all. Perhaps one of them may be a descendant of someone I once knew."

"Some spirits would have tried to stay with their original village, and convince the people to elevate them to godhood again," Susabi noted, finally finding his voice again through his stifled rage. "Or else destroy them out of vengeance."

Ichimoku made a nod to both those facts; he had clearly come across both cases himself. "A god's innate power does not come from the number of worshippers they have. As _you_ know, Lord Susabi, with your own strength," he added with a smile that was faintly wry. "But a god's ability to _use_ that power in service of their duties does. Without my villagers reaching out to me, I could not bless them. I could not guard their land from disaster, purify it of _kegare_ , drive away harmful spirits or bad weather. I cannot protect my people if there are none wishing for me to protect them. Since they moved on without me, I wanted to respect their wishes, and not force myself back upon them."

Finished with tending to his dragon, Ichimoku gave it one last stroke along its jaw before gesturing to Susabi's next. It was a natural enough invitation that Susabi had already given a nod of permission before he realized it; apparently his dragon had also fallen under the yōkai's spell, because it warily uncoiled from its sphere and laid itself tentatively on the grass. Its gaze kept darting back and forth between Susabi and Ichimoku, as if unsure how much of the command might have been a trick.

Careful to let Susabi's dragon sniff his hands first - nostrils wide and huffing - Ichimoku waited until the creature settled down before he began to check its scales. "At the same time, I did not wish to disappear, either. Humans gave me something to protect, but they did not create my existence in the first place. As an enshrined _kami_ , they offered me a purpose I could uphold, and the hope contained within their prayers. I may no longer be a god, but that desire is still strong within me."

Susabi watched his dragon's tail flick erratically, a residual nervousness at being touched by a stranger, despite the lack of aggression. He felt the same way himself, drawn to arguing with Ichimoku even though it was clear they both already knew each and every phrase. "You know it won't change anything in the end, correct?" he said, half-feeling as if he was lecturing himself. "You will die long before humanity is able to change its heart."

Once more, the expected reaction did not come: denials, anger, claims that things were _better_ instead of simply circling in an eternal loop. Ichimoku merely laughed, shaking his head as he shifted his position to work further along the dragon's spine. "I don't have any illusions of living that long," he confirmed. "But the effort must come from _somewhere_. If we spirits - of all creatures - cannot find love in our hearts for people when they do not even love each other, then where else is compassion supposed to grow? If _we_ cannot show that love is possible even in the darkest of times, then what other evidence would humans have to look to?"

He was correct. But Susabi was as well - they _both_ were, standing equally far on the sides of both reality and dreams. Susabi had had the same debates a thousand times in Takamagahara. He'd had them with _himself_ , brooding over yet another town or village that had been given the chance to change its ways, and had lapsed back into nothing but selfishness.

And here was Ichimoku, earthbound as a yōkai, but still somehow determined to dedicate his second life to the very creatures who had destroyed his first.

Up in Takamagahara, Susabi would have had to argue against gods who had never seen an ill human in arm's reach before, let alone an entire plagued countryside. But - as Susabi discovered, the longer they spoke - Ichimoku _had_. He had witnessed the same degrees of horror and brutality, had tried and failed just as much as Susabi; they drew upon an identical pool of experience, and yet had come to entirely different conclusions. Even though it felt as if neither one of them could sway the other at all - each side stubbornly sticking to their own beliefs - Susabi found himself strangely glad for it, glad to be able to _talk_ about these issues without having to wade through the background evidence first, getting mired down in abstract technicalities without ever getting to the heart of the matter.

They parted ways more amicably this time - Susabi offering to come back and check on the _bakeneko_ , Ichimoku promising that they would surely be no threat, but that Susabi was always welcome. The sun had rolled leisurely across the sky while they had spent the hours together, changing from morning to late afternoon. Its rays rippled down in liquid patterns through the leaves, casting shadows that danced with each shifting of the breeze. It traced the lines of Ichimoku's cheek and glittered over his horns, and Susabi found himself strangely reluctant to leave.

"I don't expect to change the world," Ichimoku admitted as Susabi resolutely gathered his ornaments and prepared to depart. "No one can. All we can hope is that someone else sees the space we create around ourselves, and wishes the same for themselves as well. If my own hopes can live on in that way... then perhaps there will have been something left behind."

"Living by example doesn't work," Susabi retorted bluntly. He pulled the edge of his robe straight with a fierce tug. "It simply encourages dependence and exploitation."

To the yōkai's credit, he didn't lose his patience with the argument. Nor did he dismiss Susabi's point either, merely nodding in respect. "That may be," he agreed softly. "But at least for today, there has been _something_ changed here for the better. It makes me happy to see you again, Lord Susabi," he explained, smiling in a serene mirror to his voice. "So, I must thank you for making this corner of the world a little brighter. Even if it is just for myself."

* * *

Susabi knew how he had encountered Ichimoku the first time. He knew why he had sought him out the second. The third and fourth visits had been harder to justify, but Susabi had had an excuse prepared if anyone had questioned. But after the sixth time that Susabi found himself interrupting the yōkai's travels, he couldn't find a solid explanation to justify the continued visits; the best he could come up with was to spy on the other spirit's motions and intervene whenever it looked like Ichimoku might be watching over a village, or stopping to save someone's lost relative, or climbing up a mountain to find a single stray cow.

Most of the time, Ichimoku's paths were aimless, following the easiest routes through hills and natural curves in the land. This time, however, the yōkai had deviated sharply from his habits. According to Susabi's instruments, Ichimoku had veered suddenly towards a fishing village on the western coast of the Chūbu region; when Susabi tried to scry further for supernatural presence, he had found nothing more remarkable than the local land spirits. Everything seemed in harmony, with no negative energies on the rise. No other entities of power were coming to visit.

He could have divined further, but that would have only shown him actions, not intentions. Drumming his fingers on a worktable, Susabi estimated the best point of intersection, and opened a path to the mortal world without further deliberation.

The position he chose was on one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean: a suitable, flat outcropping of land that gave him a view of homes in the distance, with hills that sloped gently upwards behind him. Despite the walk, it was the best position to observe the village, having sufficient forest cover to the west that a stray spirit could sleep comfortably under - particularly one with a very noticeable dragon.

His attempts at nonchalance were ruined when Ichimoku came over the nearest hill with a smile, looking entirely unsurprised. "I _thought_ I would see you soon," the yōkai called out, laughing, his expression warm with delight as he approached.

Taken aback, Susabi completely forgot all the dignified, aloof greetings that he had rehearsed beforehand. "Oh?"

Ichimoku shook his head, careful to keep his balance as he slid down the grass to the cliffside. "Whenever I go near towns these days, you appear before I can reach them. I am not here to _hurt_ anyone, my lord," he added, a little reproachfully. The bells on his cloak jingled as he picked his way over a boulder outcropping, metallic giggles at Susabi's expense.

Caught out in having his actions correctly interpreted - though not his intentions, at least - Susabi tried to gather back the remains of his shattered pride. "Is there anything in particular that drew you to this village, then?"

Ichimoku finished clambering down the hill, and came to a stop beside Susabi, still looking inordinately satisfied. "Just the chance that I might see you," he admitted easily, and brushed a few strands of grass off his sleeves. "Shall we enjoy the day together?"

Susabi's dragon took advantage of the moment to nose against his arm, impatient for the game that he had promised it earlier. "Here," he said, in an attempt to distract Ichimoku long enough to think up an excuse. " _You_ occupy it for a while."

The ornament he offered to Ichimoku was an ornate combination of red jade and gold, a whirling sphere made up of five rings that rotated in different directions around a simple grey stone in the center. Ichimoku took it gently, cupping it like a bubble in his palms. "I don't want to break it," he confessed.

Susabi snorted. "It's designed to help ward off venoms strong enough to carve through metal like wet clay. Such a thing is hardly delicate. Here," he encouraged, pressing his fingers up against the backs of Ichimoku's knuckles until the yōkai gave a hesitant toss of the ornament towards the sky, where it bobbed obediently like a hot air lantern before gradually sinking down. "Aim high, over the ocean."

Casting a doubtful glance at Susabi as he did, Ichimoku lifted the instrument, and then pitched it into the sky.

It was an easy toss, the arc lazy and slow. Susabi's dragon had plenty of time to loop twice around the ornament as it rose and fell, perfectly matching its velocity. It caught it neatly on the back of its neck, just behind its skull, and then swooped down towards them, careful not to let the sphere fall.

Susabi pulled a piece of dried fish out of a leather pouch, and tossed it carelessly into the air; his dragon neatly flipped the ornament skywards, snapped the treat deftly between its teeth, and caught the ornament again before it could hit the ground. Trying not to reveal how pleased he was with the successful demonstration, Susabi offered the pouch to Ichimoku. "Like that."

With someone else to show off in front of, his dragon performed remarkably well. Ichimoku grew rapidly more confident with tossing the ornament into the air, and soon they were trading it between them, challenging each of their own dragons to catch the prize first. Susabi had a better throwing arm, but the dragons preferred taking rewards from Ichimoku instead; a few times, Susabi snatched the fish away before it could be eaten, earning protesting laughter from the yōkai and thwarted growls from both dragons.

The waves echoed like an endless heartbeat against the cliffs below as he and Ichimoku played, forgetting all other concerns, mortal and supernatural alike. It was a different kind of ocean than Susabi had known in Hokkaido, warmer and less fierce in its currents - but water was still water in the end. It filled the air with salt and spray, a familiar humidity that seeped into every breath Susabi took. The summer had finally served up rain in the form of heavy thunderstorms, and the clouds overhead were thick and waiting; Susabi could smell them too, a promise of downpours later in the evening. Long ago, he would have read the weather with exacting care. Long ago, he would have worried over what it meant.

He tried not to let the memories bother him, even as he found himself breathing in deeply anyway, some part of him craving the reminder of a time before the ocean had been ruined for him forever.

They finished off the last of the dried fish finally, putting an end to the game there. Ichimoku split the final one in half and shared it between both dragons so that they could take it directly from his hand, without worrying for the integrity of his own fingers.

"My dragon," Susabi said pointedly, watching it preen, "likes you better than me."

"It's that spot right under their chins," Ichimoku replied, nonplussed as he reached up to stroke deft fingers along the scales. "All living things must suffer the curse that they can't always take care of their pains on their own."

After shaking itself off - and one final headbutt against the yōkai's shoulder - Susabi's dragon promptly took off to join Ichimoku's, both of them flying over the waves in wild loops and swirls. Ichimoku neatly tucked the now-disregarded ornament under his arm. "You remind me of your dragon sometimes, Lord Susabi," he chuckled, pulling the empty satchel of dried fish shut.

Susabi heard his own reply coming as if from a far distance away, impossible to stop. "What," his voice asked for him. "In need of my belly being rubbed?"

He shut his teeth so fast, they clipped the edge of the question; his gut felt as if it had been pitched straight off the edge of the cliff, plummeting down into an endless abyss. His cheeks burned high along the bones. It was a ridiculous joke, so it shouldn't matter that he'd said it - shouldn't _matter_ the reply to something so frivolous, but still, he found himself holding his breath in waiting, not even understanding why.

When Ichimoku was silent for too long, Susabi dared to glance over his shoulder. The yōkai was staring at him, lips slightly parted - horrified, clearly, just as much as Susabi himself was - as if he had started a reply that had forgotten its shape along the way. As Susabi watched, Ichimoku closed his mouth long enough to try again. "Capable, my lord." The syllables stumbled, the words struggling to get out. Ichimoku looked away, blinking hard and fast, as if stunned by an unexpected blow. "You are very... capable."

Grateful for the reprieve, Susabi cast his attention desperately back towards the ocean again, half-wishing for some sort of disaster to happen after all, simply so that he could discuss _it_ instead. Far away, the fishing ships were still out, bobbling in distant specks on the waves as they sought to use the last safe hours before the storm.

Susabi, noticing the way that Ichimoku was frowning up at the clouds and studying the winds, decided to change tactics to more familiar ground. "For even a single week of clear skies, those fishermen would take your eye again if they could, you know. Along with your other one."

If he'd hoped that the warning would be heeded, he could have expected the sea to dry itself out first. Still, the yōkai's shoulders relaxed. "Yes. And I would still give them both up. You... cannot help what you hold love for."

"But humans do not learn from simply being given things either, Ichimoku Ren." The full name came out sharp, harsh, as if by resorting to formality, Susabi had physically shoved the other spirit aside to create distance. It hadn't been intentional. Something in him had recoiled at the thought of Ichimoku being forced into another bargain, as instinctive as if he'd run his hand over a blade and watched the flesh part into bloody layers. "If they are given everything they demand, they will never grow. They will _never_ seek to stop harming others if they do not experience the penalties of doing so."

He half-expected a typical reply better suited to one of the younger gods - but Ichimoku surprised him again, as always, by already accepting the point. "You are correct," the yōkai admitted softly, looking away. "They will not."

The words were simple. They almost managed to erase the bleakness hiding beneath the surrender: the same endless despair that had as much depth as Susabi's own, and for the same reasons.

Berating himself at his lapse of self-control, Susabi held out his hand for the empty pouch of fish. "We both know humans have a long way to go, Ichimoku." It was as much of an apology as he could make, while knowing there was nothing to say that would not otherwise be a lie. "They will not improve if they are given everything they demand without consequences or punishment. You enable them by indulging them, Ichimoku. Even if you give them every part of your body, every part of your _soul_ , all you have taught them is that their best solution is to ask _another_ spirit for the same favor in the future."

Despite the cruelty of their debate, Ichimoku did not hesitate to take a step towards Susabi, closing the small distance between them as he returned the bag. His other arm started to bring the jade ornament up - and then cradled it tightly to his chest instead, as if it were the only warmth in a winter storm.

"It is easy to forget generosities whenever we are happy." Ichimoku's voice was tired; the words were measured, as if he had spoken them many times before in that exact order, over and over. "Every day we receive them, and take them for granted. But when humans are unhappy, they are capable of such miseries upon each other, and to everything around them. Before we do anything else, we must solve that first."

Susabi found himself exhaling slowly, his mysterious tension starting to drain away at last. This philosophy was easier to speak on; _this_ was why he had come to see Ichimoku, surely. Philosophy, and nothing more. "And so, should we _bribe_ them to keep them from destruction? Appease them, so they do not wreck havoc? That is the duty of humans to _kami_ , that an _ara-mitama_ may know it is respected and honored, and for humans to remember that they are not without another power to answer to. Yet, spirits should not be obligated to do the same." He drew a breath to press onwards, and then found his own logic yielding first. "But - you speak the truth. Humans are clumsy with what they are given. They allow fear to rule them. For that reason, beings like you should be protected from them, until they become mature enough to not break the world they are a part of."

The question Ichimoku returned to him was predictable, and the yōkai knew it, judging from the steadiness of his gaze. The corners of his mouth were turned down, resigned and sorrowful. "And do we know when that will be, Lord Susabi?"

The words themselves were an innate challenge, even with how much Ichimoku sought to defuse them by gentling his voice. It was also a question too familiar to resent. _Everyone_ asked it - everyone in Takamagahara, every earth god, every creature looking for the barest wisp of hope in the midst of an endless hell. Over and over again, they had wondered - and Susabi was among them.

"In all the branchings of fate that I am witness to, I can promise you that even centuries from now, humans will _still_ be careless destroyers." He did not bother to downplay the truth; Ichimoku did not need to be coddled. "Not even mortal laws will prevent this, because those who create and enforce those rulings will have equally weak hearts. Humans will continue to reduce one another to objects to be traded and tortured. They will pursue scholarship for the sheer purpose of finding new ways to murder each other with as much agony as they can imagine. They will do all these things and more, _regardless_ of how much kindness is shown to them, because nothing will have erased their worst impulses - and _those_ impulses are what they will follow. Cruelty inspires action, and perpetuates itself in people's hearts. Kindness does neither of those things."

The clouds had shifted of the course of their discussion, thick tendrils starting to creep across the sky from the sea to the mainland. Ichimoku pulled his outer cloak tighter around his shoulders, though there was not yet an evening chill. "You are right to say so," he agreed quietly, fingers winding around the jade ornament as it lay quiescent in his grip. "I am no diviner, but I have seen the pattern repeat over the years. Only the details change - names, cities, phrases. But the hearts of people have not. Not yet."

Back they had come again, full circle - exactly like the very problem they both debated. "Then why continue protecting them? You're not young enough to claim inexperience as your excuse."

This earned a sigh from Ichimoku, though his lips had gone wry in surrender. "Lord Susabi, we are spirits who are more powerful than humans. Our very natures should not be bound to their restrictions. If humans are not strong enough to live by kindness, should _we_ limit our natures anyway? Whether or not the effort is wasted, to force a spirit to deny themselves is hardly fair to _them_ , either."

Susabi dropped his eyes. The conversation felt as sour as a wine turned to vinegar, full of tragedy when it had so recently been filled with laughter. "No," he relented grudgingly, suddenly regretting wasting both their time on an argument that had no solution when he could have been speaking on pleasanter things with Ren. With _Ichimoku_ , rather. "But that _is_ why spirits should be protected from humans. At least for now. Your natures should not be constrained. Nor should you be taken advantage of. Let the humans see your examples - and then let them realize they are capable of reaching those behaviors _themselves_ , rather than make excuses for the remainder of their lives as to why _they_ are not responsible for being equally generous."

Ichimoku uncurled the ornament from his chest at last; lifting it to eye level, he studied the quality of the jade, running his thumb along the stone and following the natural fluctuations of color. "In this realm which is so full of suffering, if the only spaces we can protect are so small and fragile, should we not fill them with as much light as possible? Eventually they will break, and we _will_ die - but for a short while, at least, we can know that somewhere exists the world we want to see."

"Yes," Susabi said, "but not everyone's world is large enough to fit every other living creature inside it." He felt it all coming out of him, a bitter, black tide of despair that did not care how brutally it spit out the words. "Most worlds only serve those who create them. They exile others, and erase their value. They justify their choices by not including those they deem unworthy in the first place. Humans seek to satisfy standards of virtue by narrowing those standards down to the barest channels, and then they claim goodness by _default_. By not including the lives of others they dislike, they escape the guilt when those others die."

He expected another dead-end in their philosophies - but Ichimoku, strangely, gave him an odd look, and then offered another question. "You don't hate humans, do you, Susabi? You only hate what they choose. You hate that they could be so much more, but follow the worse path voluntarily."

Susabi flinched.

He had more than enough reason to hate humans, he wanted to say; he had experienced enough to have learned the truth of the people he had once sought to serve with every inch of his being. The knowledge manifested as harshness every time, until all the gods in Takamagahara had assumed that Susabi had a wellspring of buried rage: anger and impatience, affront and severity. Even the older gods who had rescued him had looked at him and said it was the shape of his _ara-mitama_ now, to be carried around for the rest of his new existence - like the spirits who had been deified not out of true apology, but simply to avert their wrath.

 _There are gods who have remembered their injustices for centuries_ , they had advised him, though not without sympathy. _At least you are in good company._

He had thought it was inevitable, to be haunted by an emotion so destructive - but having Ichimoku put a different word on it changed everything. It felt strangely liberating, as if Ichimoku had opened a window into that private ocean in his heart, shining light upon that dark morass that still seethed in his chest, making it more bearable by giving it a different name. Naming it _anything_ , anything other than loathing, anger, impatience, indifference.

"How can you make such a claim?" he asked, through numb lips. "You know so little about me yet."

He did not miss his own slip of the tongue - the _yet_ that had snuck in there, as sly as any saboteur - but Ichimoku did not deny it. Instead, he took the ornament into one hand again, using a fold of his cloak to meticulously polish away the dried debris left behind from both their dragons' mouths. "Because if you didn't have hope in your heart for them," he replied calmly, as if he were doing nothing more significant than passing conversation instead of laying out Susabi's soul like a scroll upon a table, "how could you be so hurt when they disappoint you?"

"Ah," Susabi managed: the single breath that he had room to control.

It was a noncommittal syllable that encompassed nothing of what he actually felt. _Disappointment_ , Ichimoku had said. Not hate. Hatred for the choices, true - but not the desire to exterminate humanity, to actively induce even more suffering in them, to make things worse in the mortal world however he could. Susabi had _every_ reason to loathe all of humanity and to actively wish to see it perish - but he didn't. Against all odds, he _didn't_ , and yet he'd _still_ had that cloud infesting him that he'd never been able to define otherwise, and everyone else had been all too ready to label for him. His _ara-mitama_ , they'd said. He'd have it for the rest of his existence as a spirit, and would never be able to escape.

Susabi shut his eyes to better feel the wonder of it sinking in, the shape of the word rolling around his chest, the way it made it easier to breathe - as if it was clearing out room around his lungs and scraping out tissue that had decayed past all recovery. _Disappointment_ didn't describe a vengeful, irrational, spite-filled madman. It was a different emotion altogether. It was measured, it was controllable, and - most importantly, if humans ever _did_ improve someday, it might ease itself until Susabi wouldn't even have to think about it anymore, except as a passing annoyance.

It wasn't a step towards forgiveness. What had happened was impossible for Susabi to forgive. But it meant - it meant not having the stamp of the villagers on him forever, as if part of him would always contain what they had done to him, that he would be a reflection of _their_ actions for all eternity, permanently unable to be free. To have the result of _their_ hatred burning under the surface of his heart without any choice in the matter: that the villagers had taken not only his life, but had also branded his soul.

The villagers didn't own him like a puppet. He wasn't required to feel like this forever.

When the winds picked up again this time, Susabi allowed himself breathe in deeply, tasting the familiar salt on the air and the tang of the ocean, swallowing it down for once without cringing.

He turned the shape of the conversation over in his head later that night, after he returned to Takamagahara and finished the business of the day. It wasn't the first time that Ichimoku had led things in a different direction, exploring conclusions rather than argue at a standstill. He didn't fight against Susabi; he agreed in his own way, and _disagreed_ in the same fashion, seeing the same impossible riddle and knowing the enormity of what they all had to face as spirits. Ichimoku echoed the same words of generosity and kindness, but he meant them differently: he knew what they cost, and what they would _continue_ costing, to himself as well as others. He knew an act of charity didn't mean the results would automatically be helpful. He _knew_ , and hadn't yet been broken by the world and all its miseries, hadn't fallen into denial or madness.

Everything about Ichimoku Ren made Susabi want to memorize the shape of him, as if the yōkai were a statue or a painting, a piece of art that took the nature of tragedy and coated it with the promise of endurance, over and over, until despair itself could be given the gleam of a pearl without having to lie about its shape. He wanted to hear every point and counterpoint, even the ones he already knew by heart. He wanted to memorize each moment they spent together, to be able to hold them bright and clear in his mind, as if Ren were the last member of a species on the brink of extinction.

He wanted to soak it all in like the sun against his skin, to learn everything about the yōkai that he could - so that Susabi would be able to remind himself that such a person had existed at one point in time, when the inevitable day came that Ren would be gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Susabi visited Ren, he stubbornly refused to wait until the yōkai was tempted to bait him again. Rather, he timed it properly, when Ren was between villages and had settled down for a few days to wait out the weather. The summer storms had blown in with memorable intensity that year, rolling across the land and doubling back to soak anyone who thought they had escaped. Judging from his location, Ren had taken shelter in one of the many makeshift waystations that dotted the roads between towns: an unused teahouse that had long gone to decay, and had been taken over by travelers and merchants on their way to better places.

Open-faced to the wilderness, the building was in shabby condition. All its benches were long stolen. Some of the raised sitting areas remained intact, along with most of the walls; enough peddlers used the shelter as a rest stop to have put some effort into maintaining it, and had patched it in haphazard fashion with spare materials from their wares. The thatching of the roof was entirely missing from one corner, letting the rain leak through and slowly erode the rest. Patches of grass crept steadily closer along the dirt road, and a few vines twined over a discarded stack of rotten boards, leaving the rest station suspended in a patchwork transformation of both nature and human hands.

Susabi frowned up at the sky as he arrived, the rain spitefully pelting into his eyes in reward. "Has it at least been quiet while you've been here?" he called out, ducking quickly into the refuge, wiping away his bangs with messy strokes of his fingers.

Ren was sitting far back on the biggest platform that remained intact, facing the storm; the rain dripped angrily through patches of the decayed roof, but his area was still dry. He was cross-legged on the aging wood, two narrow rows of paper talismans spread out carefully in front of him. The row closest to him was blank, not yet prepared. The second contained _ofuda_ that were already completed, black with ink and gold with power, the same rich colors as Ren's eyes.

Rather than use his cloak for cover, the yōkai had taken it off to spread it over his dragon instead. The creature had taken shelter under it like a blanket, though it was far too large to fit underneath entirely; loops of its body bulged out here and there, thick golden coils that slid haphazardly like an improperly tidied rope. It huffed as it saw Susabi and his dragon, and then promptly stuck its nose inside a sleeve, fabric puffing in and out over its nostrils.

"It's been peaceful enough," Ren offered back in greeting, his expression brightening with warmth. He lifted a hand to welcome Susabi in, nudging his dragon to try and coax it over to provide enough room. "I thought I would take the time to create more ofuda while I waited. The humidity isn't good for the paper," he acknowledged, "but once they've been finished, they will be able to withstand even phoenix fire itself."

Curious, Susabi picked his way through the room, stepping neatly around a splintering beam as he approached. "May I watch?"

"If it would not bore you, my lord." Neatly finishing up another talisman, Ren checked his ink and set his brush carefully aside. "Here - could you fetch that bowl of rainwater from outside, and replace it with this one?"

It took no time for Susabi to dutifully take the nearly empty bowl from the yōkai and switch the two, feeling cool, fresh moisture coating the sides, raindrops slipping down over his fingers. His dragon - disliking the weather, but too stubborn to stay behind in Takamagahara once Susabi had told it where he was going - had already curled up on the edge of the platform, shooting jealous glances at the yōkai's cloak from underneath its bushy eyebrows.

Susabi could have sworn that Ren's dragon looked decidedly smug.

Ren had laid out the papers carefully, setting the top row to dry so that he would have enough room to prepare the second. A neat stack of finished _ofuda_ was arranged behind him, where they would not be knocked over by any stray gestures or his dragon's tail. He accepted the full bowl from Susabi with a grateful nod, bending over it to blow gently over the liquid once, infusing it with the air from his own lungs: a breath of wind, aligning it to the nature of his power.

It was a humble set of tools to work with. The bowl was chipped, the brush fraying, and the inkstone wearing its way well onto nothing. But Ren invested his full concentration into the work, as serious as if he had been entrusted with the finest of implements to work with, focused on each fresh slice of paper with no sign of his attention flagging into boredom.

From his angle on the platform, Susabi deciphered what he could of the spell. Skipping formal characters altogether, Ren's talismans used symbols that connected together into a unified design: a heavy border, curving lines that created nested half-circles on the edges, and a single, staring eye in the center. Rather than call upon the powers of an enshrined god, Susabi realized, Ren was using his _own_ name distilled down into its barest iconography, invoking _himself_ as the principle spiritual force. He was investing each paper with his power and life essence, paring it away from himself as if cutting his soul down like a piece of fruit, smaller and smaller each time.

Reasonable for an enshrined god; far riskier for a yōkai who might not necessarily have proper rest afterwards to restore their energy, and could be caught off-guard in the mortal world by any number of predators.

Still, the craftsmanship was undeniably beautiful, all the more so for what it cost to make each one. "Your calligraphy is extraordinary," Susabi remarked, trying to resist the urge to reach out a finger and stroke one.

"Only from long practice," Ren answered wryly. "Creating them for a shrine takes patience. Once, I could have conjured the paper from the air itself, and never needed a brush. These ones are simpler protection wards, but I can at least do this much."

After waiting for the yōkai's nod of permission, Susabi picked one up carefully by the edges, without pinching it in disrespect. Despite Ren's humility, the power in it was already heavy, as if the paper were steel folded a thousand times in the forge. The yōkai had spoken the truth - once the prayer had fully set and the ink dried, the paper would be able to deflect flame as if it were a gentle breeze. "Very few even in Takamagahara could imbue a ward with this much power," he noted. "If this is what you are capable of in your present state, even _I_ would have thought twice about facing you when you were still enshrined."

"It was not as much as I would have liked, back then," Ren admitted in a rueful laugh. He dipped the brush in the ink again, taking care to wick off the excess. "If it had been, I would not have had to lose my eye. It is only thanks to my dragon that I can use them to protect things now. I am lucky to have his support, even when I am no longer properly the god he once served."

The rain drummed on the roof while Ren worked, a soothing, simple melody. In the shelter of the waystation, the air felt warm and humid, lush with the rich smell of dirt and decaying wood. The scraping of the inkstone was a countermelody to the storm as Ren patiently ground it, fingers arched, as if he were performing the duty while in the peace of a shrine, and not a forgotten ruin. The wood was splintering on one of the other seating platforms; without being asked, Susabi pulled his own outer robe off to spread it out, and laid the next row of talismans upon it to dry. Their power hummed against his skin as he cradled them in his palms, whispering promises of a hurricane.

Despite the informality of their surroundings, it was a peaceful rhythm. Susabi rested his chin idly on his hand while he watched each talisman take shape, assessing the protective energies being stitched into each one. He'd crafted similar wards himself, back when he had been mortal; his amulets had needed the blessings of his shrine's gods to infuse them, but the process had been the same. Watching Ren perform the routine task was relaxing; the repetition was familiar, and there was nothing else for Susabi to worry about while the storm continued to pour down, the tails of their dragons flicking idly while both creatures napped.

"Isn't it strange, that gods don't need humans to give them power, but to give them permission instead?" The question came out of nowhere, a legacy from when Susabi had been young and asked the same thing of priests in his own shrine. It rose from that distant place inside him, lured by nostalgia, slipping past all his bitterness only because it had been beckoned by the safety of Ren's presence. "Gods existed long before humans came about. And yet, once mortals close their hearts to us, we are gravely limited to how we can assist them. If we are not given proper welcome in this realm, we are forced to act as any other spirit instead - and sometimes, with far more freedom."

True to his nature, Ren did not question the turn in conversation; he simply nodded, grasping the flow of Susabi's inquiry and aiding it along. "Such is the spiritual connection of _musubi_ , after all." He added a few drops of water carefully to the inkwell, studying the blank paper in front of him as he prepared to calibrate its energies. "Whether you are a spirit or a mortal, _musubi_ is defined by both giving and receiving. By being able to reach out to someone, and have them reach back, our souls are allowed to strengthen one another." Tilting the brush to keep it from dripping by accident onto the paper, Ren paused in his work to regard his dragon affectionately, leaning over to give it a slow stroke down its flank. "But, that is the same for all things, no matter what form we take. And yet..." His fingers paused suddenly; his relaxed demeanor ebbed away into something indecipherable, hidden as neatly as the sun behind a cloud, though his voice lost none of its gentleness. "Sometimes, merely being seen clearly can be the greatest permission of all."

If it hadn't been for the way that Ren's gaze had gone distant, Susabi would have thought that the yōkai was referring to their last conversation, recent enough to still scour; the revelations left him feeling raw whenever he thought about them, but _clean_. He wondered, suddenly, if _musubi_ had been emphasized even more strongly as a value in Ren's shrine. A wind god could have easily been responsible for more than a single element, and a character for connection _was_ in the yōkai's current name. The lack of it would surely be grating.

"Did you have any prayers dedicated to you?" he asked, curious for any clues.

With a final pat to his dragon's scales, Ren pulled himself out of his thoughts. "Yes. Just a few _norito_. They were nothing grand, like those devoted to larger gods. Even so," his voice softened, lost this time in a welcome fragment of memory, "they still were mine. My priests worked on them, generation after generation, seeking out the right sounds, until at last they found the words that resounded with their souls the most, and reminded them of me. When they sang them, they felt as if I was with them, in their hearts. And I was. Every time."

Silence held for a moment, and then Ren resolutely dipped his brush back in the ink again, focusing once more on the talismans. "But, now that they are gone, those prayers are at an end. They will never be heard again."

To that, Susabi could have said nothing. Politeness or tact or cowardice - any of those reasons would have sufficed. Ren had already started to move on, deftly painting black arcs over the paper. There was no indication that he intended to elaborate further on the past.

Despite himself, Susabi allowed the next question anyway. "What were they like?"

He thought at first that he had pressed too far - that he had violated a boundary which the yōkai would have preferred to never be touched - but after a moment, Ren nodded. "Here," he said, very quietly. "I'll write one."

With that, Ren searched in his supplies until he found a longer length of parchment, once that had not yet been cut down to the size of a talisman. After dipping his brush deeply in the ink, he danced it over the paper, writing the prayer effortlessly from memory, pausing only to rewet the bristles. The graceful swirls of calligraphy had a fluidity that looked like the wind itself sculpting out clouds, drawing a black and white map of the sky, a painting of air currents made visible for those with wings to use them.

Ren waved his fingers over the paper gently to dry it, and then turned it around to offer it to Susabi with both hands.

At first glance, the prayer was simple. Short, as Ren had warned him, with no long, flowery introductions going on and on about honor and majesty. There were the standard respects, acknowledging the heavenly gods, the earthly gods, and even offering thanks to the mountain itself. Susabi scanned them quickly, noting the proper protocols: nothing unexpected, traditions followed, suitable for a smaller shrine that needed practicalities instead of grand performances.

Then, appearing as suddenly as a rainbow in the summer mist, was the god-name Ichimoku Ren had used when he had been enshrined and possessed both eyes.

Susabi halted over the characters, reading them again and again as he absorbed their meaning, tasting the way they felt in his thoughts. He could feel the weight of their shapes upon his tongue. He inhaled deeply, imagining how they must have been sung - and then memory took over fully, instinct and habit triggered by years of ritual, slamming into him like a tidal wave.

He had heard other _norito_ sung after his death, and had never been tempted to join in. But here - with the tranquil presence of the once-god beside him, the parchment light upon his fingers, the syllables already rolling in his thoughts - that single, deep breath was enough to drag him into the start of a merciless focus. Born of long training and practice, the trance washed over him, catching him and pulling him down before he could resist it. Ren's name was already filling his mind; like a pair of cupped hands overbrimming with water, there was no room left inside Susabi for resistance.

He straightened up, gathering his robes carefully under his knees, and then began.

The first bow - in greeting, upon initially taking a seated position - was automatic. The next two bows brought Susabi even deeper into reverie as he began the prayer formally. His hands were empty of any bells or baton, but he lifted the scrap of paper in his hands, his eyes fixed on the beginning characters, drawing in the proper amount of air into his lungs and holding it fast.

He opened his mouth to speak.

The first syllable felt like a drum in his mouth. It was the thrum of a _taiko_ beat, primal and resounding in his chest: erasing his heartbeat, stretching out long and sonorous. The hum vibrated through his teeth, each word like a thunderclap pulse. His body knew the rhythm - deep inhalations, slow exhalations, oxygen making him dizzy even as it plucked as his thoughts and sent them flying with intoxication. Each cycle of his lungs was a connection to the primal pulse of the universe, to every living thing around them, every motion of existence that gave shape to the whirling whole.

Memory tentatively provided the pace for the next opening words, following the model of a dozen similar prayers that Susabi could still recite in his sleep. He hadn't memorized this one. He didn't know the right flow of it exactly, where to compress the chant and when to prolong it, instincts fumbling - but it still sang in him, sang _through_ him, yanking him further and further along even as part of him felt as if it was opening helplessly again to the whole of the world. Back when he'd been mortal, each _norito_ had spread out his soul like an offering itself, full of love and devotion for the divine. Each time, it had been accepted and embraced by gods who had been equally grateful for someone to reach out to them.

Gods like Ren had been. If Ren had dwelt in that ocean shrine, then Susabi would have sung this same prayer to him each morning. Ren would have welcomed it. Ren would have been able to reach straight into Susabi's heart, promising to always keep it safe.

Susabi would have given it to him.

His soul felt as if it was throwing open every part of itself anyway, exposing itself recklessly without his control, merging with his voice together in an incantation that left him racked with sensation. The air in his lungs was emptied and filled with slow rolls of the tide, chained to words that demanded he continue breathing simply to speak them. He could almost feel the _jo-e_ robes back on his body, the woven mat under his knees. The hum in his nose and mouth was a shudder that felt like the earth rumbling, or the wind shaking the trees.

Or the ocean rushing in, midnight-cold and heavy, dragging him under the tides.

The trance refused to release him, smothering his thoughts; Susabi's eyes traveled line after line on the page. He was choking now, helpless to stop. His instincts were smothering him, pulling him down to drown a second time, drowning in the sea of sound that thundered in his ears like his own dying heartbeat -

He broke free at last on the final syllable, the calm completely shattered. The ending came out half-stuttered, mangled. The trance broke; he was safe in the present day once more, sitting in a run-down waystation, his dragon nearby. He was _safe_. No one was here to hurt him. No one was here to watch him die.

His fingers were trembling, rattling the paper. He tried to set down the prayer neatly, and crumpled a corner when he almost dropped it instead.

But Ren didn't seem to mind. His head was tilted back, rapt and relaxed; his eyes had slipped closed, lines of tension softening around them, as if Susabi's voice had eased a pain inside him that had gone on for so long, he had forgotten what it was like to live without. Even his face seemed flushed with color, the blood rekindled in his veins. The smile on his face was more relaxed than Susabi had ever seen it before, as if Ren had been listening to a lover's whisper at his bedside, their promises caressing him through the lazy hours of the night.

Susabi tried to remember how to breathe.

"I apologize," he blurted. "Most of the _norito_ I learned were for ocean gods." It was more than he'd meant to admit about himself, but his wits were still scattered, frantic enough that he forgot all formality and spoke like a child again, apologizing desperately for not rotating a _tamagushi_ branch correctly or walking too close to a centerline. "I didn't - I didn't have the right mindset for yours. It wasn't performed very well."

"It was perfect," Ren replied, opening his eyes at last. His composure was already settling back into place, piecing itself slowly together into a mask that covered up all emotions save tranquility. "It was good to hear my name again. You did beautifully. But," he added softly, looking directly now at Susabi, "a prayer that brings pain is no prayer at all. I am grateful. And I will not ask you to do it again."

Before Susabi could respond - still shaken - Ren reached out, his motions deliberately slow, designed not to startle. He took the paper back, folding it again and again to block out the calligraphy completely, and then finally tucked it away in his supplies where it was hidden at last.

"Please do not be concerned about that _norito_ in the future," Ren added in reassurance when he was done, smoothing down the leather of the bag so that it would not accidentally be pushed open. His voice was gentle, and unwavering as a stone. "I will never write it again, here or anywhere else. You have my vow."

Susabi ducked his head away from the reprieve. He wanted to protest, to say no, _no_ , he could recite the prayer a second time, it meant _nothing_ to him. But every ounce of strength he tried to summon wasn't nearly enough; it choked and cowered in his throat, making him feel mortal again, mortal and _failing_.

At the same time, he couldn't ignore the yearning that had flickered in Ren's eyes around the stern self-denial. Even with all the yōkai's efforts, he hadn't been able to entirely conceal the sorrow of knowing that even this small moment would fade and be gone forever, and then no one would speak his name in that same way ever again.

* * *

Susabi didn't offer to recite a prayer again. Ren didn't suggest it. But the next time they met - near the edge of a river this time, several days travel from the latest village that had attracted the yōkai's attention - Susabi had a different task already prepared. He arrived with two small, lacquered tray tables in his arms, both of them repurposed from their normal use for dining. Several bags of containing different kinds of protective _omamori_ had been slung over his shoulder, and he was careful not to allow them to slide off as he hefted his burden, striding down the path towards the yōkai.

"Here," Susabi said abruptly, before Ren even had a chance to greet him. "If you have the time, I would require your assistance."

Faced with both furniture and supplies aggressively brandished at him, Ren blinked, bemused. "Of course."

They arranged both tables beneath the nearest tree, laying out what they could without allowing the satchels of _omamori_ to touch the ground. "The gods at this particular shrine are relatively inexperienced with taking care of mortals," Susabi explained, fishing out one of the amulets from the sack to demonstrate. "They are terrible at keeping track of which _omamori_ they have blessed, and which were missed. Several were done entirely improperly, with the wrong god's touch. I assume you can identify which ones need correction?"

Ren exhaled slowly; his eyes were fixed on the wooden trays with the thirst of a dying man, but he was respectful and careful as he reached out his hands and turned the first _omamori_ towards himself, using only the tips of his fingers, as if afraid he might offend the talisman with the heat of his skin. "I would be honored, my lord."

"The honor should be _theirs_ ," Susabi replied tartly. "This way, they can avoid embarrassing themselves any further."

They wedged the tables together side by side to avoid accidentally dropping any amulets if they had to be exchanged across the trays, and settled down to work. The batches that Susabi had brought were a style of amulet that had recently become popular in the capital, with prayers written down on papers that had then been folded inside silken pouches to make them easier for transit, and ornamented with cords. The fashion made them easier to tuck into sleeves and tie them up as needed; the convenience could not be denied.

In theory, the amulets Susabi had brought would have been organized neatly under those guidelines. In practice, both the gods and the priests of the shrine had only just begun to practice fashioning such charms. The cords were knotted poorly, and some of the pouches had no indication of the contents. Without a spiritual sense for the type of prayer that was stored within, a helpless recipient would have had to open the lacings to find out, ruining the charm's protection permanently.

There wasn't much space for them to both sort through the _omamori_ \- normally, this task would have been done safely in a shrine, or other larger tables - and Susabi could have simply dragged Ren to one of his workrooms, but he had found himself appreciating the quiet and privacy of the wilderness. Like watching Ren paint his wards, there was a peace to be found in sorting the amulets together with the yōkai. Their fingers brushed occasionally as they passed the _omamori_ back and forth, sitting close together; their elbows nudged one another like two dogs rolling over in their sleep. Susabi's knee kept bumping against Ren's leg. Both he and the yōkai had shed their outer layers in the warmth of the afternoon, and yet it felt as if the day was still too hot.

"Forgive me, Lord Susabi," Ren said after a while, his fingers running over the surface of one _omamori_ as he deciphered the energies within, "but this work - it must bore you, mustn't it?"

"Ah," Susabi replied; he was reluctant to admit an answer either way, not when the task was pretense to begin with. He studied the _omamori_ in front of him with exaggerated concentration. "Even emissaries must occasionally perform chores."

But he glanced up to see Ren smiling wryly, as if the yōkai had sensed the truth all along. "You're doing this as a favor to me, aren't you?"

Time held itself hostage, and Susabi's thoughts with it. The question was simple, but he couldn't summon a reply. Somehow during their work, Ren had ended up shifting even closer to Susabi; it had been such a natural progression as they had handed amulets back and forth, reaching across one another's tables, that Susabi hadn't even noticed. Now he was suddenly aware of every inch of contact. Their shoulders were brushing, nearer in height now that they were both on the ground. Ren's leg was pressed up against his thigh. The line of the yōkai's jaw ran in a smooth sweep up to the point of his ear, hair tucked neatly behind it, a few strands wandering loose like lost, wispy clouds.

His mouth looked impossibly soft, and sweet.

All it would take to close the rest of the distance would be for Susabi to lean forward slightly, turning his head just a little around Ren's horns. All he would have to do was bend down, as easily and inevitably as a branch swaying in the wind - and, as Susabi watched, Ren inhaled slowly, watching him back, parting his lips to breathe or to speak or to -

Susabi swallowed hard, shutting his eyes to resist temptation. When he opened them again, Ren had straightened up again and was calmly sorting through a row of crimson-stitched talismans on a corner of his tray, so casual that it was as if he had never moved at all.

"This shrine has so many different kinds of _omamori_ ," he observed approvingly, stroking his fingers affectionately over each one. "These gods are very kind to their followers."

Susabi cleared his throat. "Yes," he blurted inelegantly, trying to ignore the motions of Ren's hand. "Their enthusiasm is to be applauded, even if their talent cannot."

"Yet, I am not surprised that they got them mixed up," Ren continued smoothly. "These two here would look identical, if not for this extra line of thread on the back. Why would an _omamori_ for safe childbirth be crafted the same as one to successfully hunt for wild beasts? I should hope these gods are not intending to imply _that_ particular message."

Susabi blinked.

"Are you... _evaluating_ the talismans of other gods?" he asked, completely deadpan.

"Ah... perhaps," Ren admitted. "Perhaps. _Yes_ ," he finally broke down with a laugh that creased his eyes, an honest amusement that stripped the solemnity out of his bearing. "It is no wonder that they are confusing them, when they make no effort to distinguish them to _themselves_ , let alone their followers. Even you and I have had trouble so far. At least... wrap them with different cord braidings once they are done. Or colors?"

They were such small, mundane complaints - still restrained behind Ren's attempts to be polite - that it completely overturned the tension from only a moment before. Susabi started to answer, and was caught short by the sound of his own laughter instead, starting slow at first in stifled chuckles, and then bubbling up until he was gasping for breath in an attempt to control the noise. It felt bizarrely _foreign_ , as if his body had lost the physical capacity years ago, and was now limping along in a poor parody; it had given up the correct muscle reactions for humor long ago, and was fabricating whatever else it could to fill in the gap. Still, he couldn't quash his reaction at the sight of Ren antagonized by something so minor when the yōkai had endured so much worse over the years - when they _both_ had. And now, to see them together like this, sorting through mismatched amulets in the middle of nowhere, as if the world were truly so peaceful and they had nothing worse to dwell upon - he couldn't help _but_ laugh.

Ren fell silent to regard him with fond exasperation. "What if they had their _names_ written properly on them?" he tried again after a moment, which only made things worse.

"You enshrined gods _never_ leave each other alone, fallen or not," Susabi managed, once he finally had control over himself. "Always comparing one another's walkways, making comments on the quality of your _torii_ , or how many bells you have hanging up to ring. You have such _pride_." Seeing the protest start to creep over Ren's face, he coughed his remaining amusement back, and changed the topic. "Very well. What were your own _omamori_ like?"

The diversion worked; Ren sat back, setting aside the momentary defensiveness as readily as a pile of _ofuda_. "Bamboo was the most common base material for my shrine. Silk was harder for us to come by," he admitted, and Susabi didn't miss the pronoun, the _us_ that showed how dearly he still treasured those times. "So, we only had a few prayers that would be shielded by cloth. Wood and plain paper were the easiest to work with, and sometimes carvings. Dragons, of course, when craftsmen had time to shape and offer them for my blessing." The yōkai was smiling more easily now, lacing his fingers in his lap and turning the palms upwards, wrists loose and exposed. His gaze went soft and unfocused, looking inwards towards memory. "Every hunter carried my mark. For families, they liked to hang up the wooden _omamori_ where they would catch the breeze. They would add bells, or beads - so many different colors. Sometimes, they would string several together to protect their households as windchimes, saying that the sounds of them rattling in the breeze were their prayers being carried back up to me."

The yōkai paused, and then suddenly volunteered more, his enthusiasm blossoming into delight. "My _shintai_ was formed from three curved stones in the shape of _magatama_ , you see. When the village was still very young, and hunters were first exploring the mountain for game, they saw a dragon flying near its peak one spring. When they went up to find it, they discovered those stones arranged in a circle in a clearing, like shed claws." He lifted his hands, shaping the air as he described the story, the lore that surely had been passed down in those very words from generation to generation. "They decided that those stones were proof of a sacred presence, and built a shrine there to welcome it. And that is how I became their wind god. Their dragon protector."

The tale might have been comforting for Ren, but Susabi frowned at the reminder. Shrines were buildings for protection, but _shintai_ were the true homes of gods; Susabi had guessed that Ren would have had a sacred object dedicated to his name, but - not knowing yet what had happened - was unsure what had happened to the building itself. There was a far difference between a shrine being abandoned and being looted; a _shintai_ left behind to be potentially defiled by thieves was a horrifying thought. "What happened to them?"

To his relief, Ren shook his head. "They should still be there. No one came for them during all the years I remained, and now, there is nothing but one of the roof pillars left to mark the shrine itself. No one would know where to dig." He hesitated then, his expression dimming in its joy. "They... are powerful enough _yorishiro_ to attract another god, I am sure. Once I was no longer a deity, I could not use them any longer to ground myself, but perhaps - perhaps another god will find and use them someday."

Susabi mulled the information over, watching Ren's face tell the story that the yōkai's voice would not. He had no shrines; he could not guess what it would feel like to have someone else seize his sacred symbols, other than to come home and find a stranger there instead, using his name and wearing his clothes, calling themselves a superior replacement. "Was anyone else enshrined with you?"

Surprisingly, Ren took his time in answering that particular question, as if the answer was not worth the risk. "They said all dragon gods were jealous gods," he finally replied in a dangerously light, indifferent tone, staring out towards the horizon as if one of the clouds had given insult, and he was waiting for it to vanish out of chagrin.

Susabi bit back another laugh at the still-wounded expression on the yōkai's face. "And are you? Jealous?"

Ren shifted his gaze back towards him, and it warmed again, sly and forgetting all its previous distress. "I _have_ been known to become very fond of things very quickly, my lord."

Almost instantly, Ren's expression overrode every other instinct in Susabi's head. His hand ached in wanting to touch it. They were still so close that the fabric of Ren's robes trailed over Susabi's wrist every time either one of them moved. Susabi could reach out, urge Ren's chin to turn, and see that smile in full. He wondered what it would feel like to have Ren laughing quietly against his shoulder, the yōkai's breath cupped in the palm of his hand.

And then Ren made a rueful chuckle, breaking the moment. "But no, I am not, Lord Susabi," he continued. "Life is best when it is shared, and a closed heart does not even serve the person it belongs to. There was plenty of room in my shrine. I would have been happy to have had another there."

The news made sense; Ren showed every sign of a person who had learned to live on their own, quietly enduring what they could not solve for themselves. Shaking his own head to clear it, Susabi forced himself to focus on the conversation. "Just Susabi is fine," he corrected. "I believe we have long passed the need for formalities."

In truth, it was more to excuse himself than anything else; he had stopped thinking of Ichimoku Ren like that months ago, dropping politeness in favor of a single syllable whenever he thought of the other spirit, a sound that could be held inside a shallow breath, a simple sigh. But Ren tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing in concern. "You are an emissary from Takamagahara, and I am a fallen yōkai. It would not be properly respectful."

" _You_ are a formerly enshrined god, who could tutor half the _amatsu-kami_ on the very principles they are meant to uphold. Let us skip the titles, before I feel inclined to address you as a teacher."

Ren hesitated, and then broke into a smile suddenly, studying the ground before he finally lifted his eyes. "Very well, my lord," he said, and caught himself with a laugh. "My - Susabi."

* * *

The _omamori_ were a simple pleasure - so simple that Susabi found himself touring more of the shrines of the younger gods, under the excuse of monitoring their development. Most of them already knew of him from his work with the mortal world; several had been sternly upbraided by him in the past. They had already become accustomed to his criticism over various errors. To have him volunteer his own assistance caused them no end of scrambling, terrified that they had finally messed up their responsibilities badly enough that they might never be allowed out of Takamagahara again.

In truth, Susabi had loved the rituals once. Shrines had always been a comfort for him, the home he had sensed even when he was too young to understand his origins. He had been devoted to his gods and respected those of others, tending to every inch of his shrine and the sacred instruments it had housed. The gods had always cherished him back. Whenever he had sung their _norito_ , he had felt their joy blossoming like a second sun against his heart, warming it with promises that he would be forever welcome in their presence.

But since his death, all his memories had been overshadowed by how quickly the villagers had defaulted to hatred. He hadn't been able to think of any of the rituals without remembering how, inevitably, they had been discarded by the villagers; all his prayers had gone to waste, all his devotions, every desperate attempt he'd made to try and protect them even as he'd felt his prophecies fraying uselessly into failure. His ocean gods had been _kunitsu-kami_ , earth gods who did not reside in Takamagahara; he had flinched at meeting them after they had rescued him from death, unable to bear their apologies, seeing the sorrow in their faces even as they had spoken unrepentantly of destroying the humans who had hurt him.

They had let him retreat to Takamagahara, away from them; he could no longer take comfort in their presence. His village had ruined even that compassion for him. It had become too painful to endure.

Offering those experiences now to Ren felt different, like taking out a storage chest after moving to a new house, and pulling out the kimono one by one to see the patterns in the light. They were the same rituals, but everything else was fresh. Ren made the memories bearable whenever he was around by welcoming them; he celebrated every moment, every gesture, as if the world only contained the two of them and their dragons, and no other judgement mattered.

The space itself around Ren was safe - safe and simple. There were no villagers to appease. There were no disasters to foresee. There was only Ren's relieved, grateful face every time Susabi offered another _omamori_ to examine, or asked his opinion on an _ema_ request, or for assistance while cleaning the feathers on a set of _hama-ya_. It was as if, between the two of them, they were rebuilding a language of everything they had lost, of everything sacred that had been ripped away from their hands and their identities.

Most importantly, the work fed Ren, more effectively than any food or drink. It nourished him, reaching into the parts of his spirit that he had shut away with the rotting of his shrine, never expecting to be able to share them again. He smiled more, almost all the time now; the weariness that had marked him at their first meeting seemed like a mere ghost on his bones. There was a brightness in his eyes, and a sense of gentle mischief that continued to reveal itself more often, teasing at the edges of Susabi's tensions with the delicacy of a spring breeze - until Susabi would find himself utterly disarmed, and forced to dismiss whatever matter of the mortal realm was forcing him to brood. It was like watching a tree come back to life in his hands, no longer starved of sunlight and water: branches reaching wide, fresh leaves unfurling for the first time in years.

Ren was flourishing. But - as much as it helped the yōkai - each meeting between them felt as if it was taking something apart inside Susabi, as if a ghost had slid its fingers into his flesh and was patiently deboning him, joint by joint. He kept stumbling over sudden moments of weakness whenever he thought about the yōkai, an unsteadiness and uncertainty, a wavering where he had thought he had strength. He wanted to find more things to share with Ren, even if it meant unearthing memories that Susabi wasn't certain he was ready to ever see again. Part of him was crumbling, taking down the barriers that he had drawn to separate himself from his mortal life - to separate himself from _people_ , frustrated by both humans and gods alike.

Even so, the possibility of ending their time together was far worse.

It became a regular routine before Susabi even noticed: he would finish his work in Takamagahara, review the reports, and then consider if it was good timing to visit the mortal world. Sometimes - if it looked as if the yōkai wasn't near a town - Susabi would set aside the entire day in advance, keeping Ren company as the other spirit either rested or continued his travels. He started to brought food and drink with him as a peace offering for the arguments he knew he was providing, fights which were performed only in voice, but were no less bloodless. Even with the shared ground of their experiences, they were still no closer to agreeing on other matters of belief. Susabi didn't expect they would be. It would be as much an insult to Ren as to Susabi himself to think that either one of their convictions were so weak as to be changed by simple rounds of debate.

What mattered was that Ren never lost patience with their conversations. He always answered Susabi readily whenever each discussion came up, leaping willingly back into the same futile counterpoints, both of them endlessly seeking a new way out of the inevitable conclusions at the end. They wound in circles around the same topics, sometimes switching points as unexpectedly as changing leads in a sparring match. The issue of human hearts mattered as much to Ren as it did to Susabi; they both recognized it along with their mutual futility, just as they each knew the other person would never stop.

Humanity had built its legacy on blood and scorn, on exclusion and derision. The more that some people gave, the more that others learned how to take. Without structure and law, humans would not prevent their worst impulses from damaging the world and all its living creatures. Lacking a sense of community, they needed other forms of order to supplant the gap instead.

Susabi's visions had shown as much. He was not the only sacrifice made to satisfy a village seeking a scapegoat. He would not be the last.

But the hostility of it all, strangely, felt lessened around Ren, even though they spoke of it constantly. None of their time felt wasted, no matter how they spent it. Even the hours when they would simply eat together, or sit down for a break and talk idly about the events of the day: the latest trainees in Takamagahara, a few sightings of corpse-eating ghosts, the condition of local protective wards in one part of the country or another.

The sky. The sun. The weather. Ren seemed to smile at everything these days - and therefore, everything was worth it.

Other times, they analyzed the more delicate balances of power that needed to be maintained between mortals and spirits alike. Different training exercises for the younger gods were discussed, changes in human settlements, and shifts in weather that could leave a drought in one area, or a flood in another. Sometimes, Susabi left Ren with supplies that would go towards supporting the smaller shrines, having an excuse to come back the next day just to pick up what the yōkai had finished: braided cords, plaited straw, ground pigments for colored paints.

One afternoon, Ren surprised him by catching his sleeve just as Susabi arrived, tugging him to sit down. He had a bundle of hemp in his lap, and had almost finished twisting a cord out of it, his fingers working deftly to spiral the length of it into a braid.

"It's a _shimenawa_ for you," he said once it was complete, laughing at the startled expression as Susabi realized the yōkai was fastening it around his wrist. "Because you are sacred, Susabi."

Technically true - but Susabi found himself lingering over the words, regardless. He held steady as Ren finished tying off the slender rope, and then tilted his arm to watch it dangle against the other bracelet on his wrist, polished metal clashing in stark contrast to the natural plant fibers. The _shimenawa_ was so thin and rough and out of place compared to his other ornaments - already fraying, the strands scratching his skin where it slid down past the sleeve of the robes he had chosen that day.

Still, he touched it reverently, running his fingers meticulously over each twist as if it had been woven from moonlight itself, spun on a loom of glass.

"It's missing the _shide_ ," he commented, just to needle Ren, and Ren simply laughed again.

He wore it back to Takamagahara anyway, and felt it rubbing at the layers of his formal clothes, rough weave catching at the silks. Despite that, he kept it on each day until it started to risk splitting apart, and then he took it off and hung it up near one of his worktables, where he could look at it each day whenever he chose.

* * *

They finished their work early the next time they met, fingers roughened from twisting kaya grass into braids for smaller _chi-no-wa_ hoops, creating protective wards for those who had not had a chance to be purified as part of the larger summer ceremonies. Both he and Ren had sorted quickly through the pile of fibers, and then - without anything else to focus on as an ending point - they had simply allowed the day to continue on into evening, leaning back against the nearest tree large enough to support them both, letting its shade to cover their bodies. Their dragons had been set loose to fly and hunt as they pleased, and their serpentine forms occasionally darted through the clouds overhead, casting rippling shadows on the earth below.

Susabi was starting to drowse, losing himself in the peace and warmth of the afternoon, when Ren broke the silence. "I recently heard from another spirit that a pack of _gaki_ are headed towards a pair of towns to the south of here. It should be a simple matter of defending the area long enough that they are convinced to hunt easier prey. If I go, will you advise me not to?"

Startled, Susabi realized the permission that was being asked - more accurately, the fact that Ren was _asking_ it. Ever since he had started visiting Ren, he had also completely interfered with the yōkai's business, preventing Ren from doing anything more than scaring away other spirits from a distance. Overprotectiveness was an offense to them both; he did not need to treat Ren as if the yōkai was less competent than a Takamagahara trainee. Less patient spirits would have complained long before now.

"No," he replied, thoroughly chagrined. "No. You should go. I do not disapprove of your intentions - you must know that by now. Simply the outcomes." He stared down at his lap, puzzled by the sudden queasiness that was beginning to roil in his stomach, like a poison accidentally ingested in wine too sweet to refuse. "I will stop interrupting your work."

"It _is_ difficult for me to ask," Ren admitted; when Susabi glanced up, he saw that the yōkai was watching him contemplatively. "If you withhold your visits, how else will I be able to see you as often?"

Relief loosened the tightness in Susabi's nerves; it was a reprieve to have the question voiced for him. "I will come every full moon and new moon," he suggested, counting out calendar estimations and already dissatisfied with how long the days would stretch. The waning phase had just tipped over into waxing, the crescent of the moon barely wide enough for light. There would be at least ten more nights to wait. "That way, you may plan your headaches accordingly."

Ren inclined his head in assent, and then murmured, nonchalantly, "I miss you already."

The statement was so easily spoken that Susabi found himself catching at the memory of the sounds, second-guessing them like a miser to wonder at possible intonations. He did not know what to offer back. Every reply was half-formed in his thoughts, stripped of any finesse: _thank you, why,_ and, _I will miss you as well._

"If you drive away the _gaki_ now," he replied, habit making the conversation for him, "how will the humans even know they were in danger at all?"

"I have thought about allowing the spirits to get close enough to alert the towns," Ren admitted. "Both of them lack a strong defense. Here, let me show you."

Sitting up, the yōkai cleared a spot in the dirt, using pebbles and broken twigs for markers. He scratched out a square near Susabi's knee, and then two more closer to his own: one large, the other much smaller. "The _enenra_ said that a village three days to the east had been assaulted recently, with their storehouses devoured, along with many of the residents. The survivors have fled further east, but the _gaki_ are continuing south, along the river." The stone in his fingers dug a winding line that veered between the two blocks, sharply cutting off the smaller. "But, here is the dilemma. The second town has far larger supplies of rice, as well as clear roads that lead on to other settlements. The gaki will be drawn to it like flies, and consume everything else along the way."

Susabi studied the crude map, already seeing the shape of the land unfurling like a flag in his mind. "Including the smaller town," he acknowledged. "They'll use it as a shield and a decoy."

The wince Ren made was proof that the other spirit had come to an identical conclusion, despite his best efforts otherwise. "They may yet recognize one another as equals, and band together for mutual protection."

"If they truly believed so, then these towns would be the same size." Susabi made a dismissive flap of his hand, still scrutinizing the layout. "A difference in resources is a difference in affluence, and there are almost certainly territory lines drawn because of it. So - your options are simple. If you do nothing, the larger town will more than likely allow its sibling to bear the brunt of the attack. If you intervene, but the towns are unaware, they will remain ignorant that anyone defended them at all. Yet, if you do make yourself known, you simply invite new avenues of resentment." He stretched his arm out, tapping meaningfully on the smaller square. "You are an outsider, a resource they have no control over, and each side will read a different meaning into your allegiance. So long as they know you will give them your strength for free, they can excuse themselves for not even trying, and turn their energies towards petty hatreds for each other instead."

The list did little to either surprise or discourage the yōkai. "There is no clean solution," Ren affirmed, pulling his hair back over his shoulder before it could accidentally sweep across the map. "But these _gaki_ are beyond ravenous. I fear risking them too close to either town." He was silent for a moment, and then shared his decision. "I will warn them, but prepare to handle the defenses myself."

Disquiet soured Susabi's nerves. On their own, _gaki_ were weaker pests. Massed in a sizeable pack, however, they could strip a horse of all its flesh within seconds. "How many are there?"

Ren glanced up at him; though his tone was mild, there was a sternness in his gaze, as weary and familiar as if he were on the banks of a river again, defending fields from _furaribi_. "If I tell you, you will ambush them, and wipe them all out," he pointed out calmly. "My intention is to disperse them, not destroy. The _gaki_ , too, are acting out of the desire to survive - their hungers define them most of all, and they are more vulnerable than we are to the cravings for food. Once the main group is broken up, the towns should be able to handle whatever threats trickle through."

Caught short by the declaration - and the implicit warning to allow the yōkai his choice of method - Susabi narrowed his eyes. Having it pointed out meant that he could not attempt to eliminate the issue in advance; Ren would surely know. "There is no opportunity for them to learn that way," he insisted instead, aware of how his position had flipped underneath his feet, and he was arguing Ren's usual stance for him. "You can set an example for them now, but they will forget all too quickly. What message do you intend to leave them with?"

The challenge hit home this time. Ren dropped his gaze, unable to defend against Susabi's scrutiny. "The memory that someone was willing to help, once," he replied. "Even if no one they know comes to their aid, at least the world will have proven it is not uncaring. Perhaps that might be enough to inspire someone to stand up, the next time. Even if the chance is so very small," he admitted, but without much strength in his voice. One of his hands reached out, slender fingers settling over one of the roughly-squared towns, as if he could protect it with the shield of his bones and grant it a divine blessing once more.

It was Susabi's turn to go quiet now, faced with a truth that had no dignity in its fate. He picked up one of the twigs, its bark flaking away under his touch. When he tried to use it to brush away the nearest town markers, he only ended up scraping rough trenches into the dirt, gashes that zig-zagged over the soil.

The only point that he could make was the worst one - not because of its lack of logic, but its lack of mercy. It rose up out of his throat like a vengeful ghost; for once, he found himself resisting it, struggling with the words.

But it would not be silenced. "Ren," he said, just as hushed, just as shorn of hope. "You want these people to _care_ enough about each other enough that they will gladly protect one another. But they will not. And watching _you_ bleed on their behalf will not spark compassion in them, either." He did not need to scry the future for this; history alone stood as his testament. "Tell me one time, just _one_ , when a single person's heart was changed by your actions. That they became kinder, that they loved others more, that they forgot spite and chose peace. Say that your eye meant _something_ to your people when you gave it up for them. Tell me you have _proof_ that it helps, Ren," he repeated, half of him yearning to be proven wrong, half of him already knowing the truth. "Because the answer these humans would give you is easy. The _gaki_ are hungry creatures. What will you do if the towns ask you to feed their appetite with _yourself_ \- not an eye, or an arm, but to lie down willingly and let them make a meal of you until there is nothing left? Would you still do it? If they promised they would become better people in exchange for such a price, would you still allow it?"

He was already sick at the thought of the answer. He knew what his own solution had been. Drowning himself had been the only option Susabi had seen to put an end to his village's impossible demands, answering both their wishes and his own for it all to stop. Death had the sole reprieve. Ren might think of it as a mercy now, and for the same cause: a slow torture of tests and punishments, day by day, until the yōkai threw himself gladly into a fight he knew he could not win.

But Ren surprised him. "No."

Startled, Susabi jerked upright, even as Ren's voice only dwindled, softer and softer. "If I knew for certain that these townspeople would take the example to heart, and protect one another for the rest of their days, then I would gladly slit my own belly open to let the _gaki_ feast. But the chance is too small this time. And that," he added slowly, each word sounding wrenched out of his throat, "is also why I am to blame. For denying them, before they can prove otherwise. For not having enough faith."

In a flashpoint instant, all Susabi could taste was anger, curdling like acid in the back of his throat: he could understand, suddenly, the rage that would cause a god to kill their own followers. His ocean gods had reached out and crushed the village they had entrusted their own child to, giving the humans no chance to atone; if Susabi could, he would do the same to both towns now, to _any_ town that might have given Ren cause to say such words.

Susabi's fingers felt as if they were trembling. He clenched them hard, feeling the twig splinter and stab into his palm.

"If deliberately _slaughtering_ someone is required to spark love in their souls, then those humans are not worth saving." He spat the condemnation; he did not care. "Creatures who have fallen that far are no longer anyone's responsibility, let alone yours. You should let them perish from their own pride -"

He stopped short at the stricken expression on Ren's face.

The yōkai was holding himself very still as he watched Susabi, as carefully composed as a statue, distant and remote. He did not speak, barely breathing, as if he knew that any gesture on his part would betray a plea for aid that would had always gone unanswered. He had not shifted his weight away, but Susabi's instincts flared, as if a vast gulf had swept open between them, yawning wide so that Susabi was staring at Ren from across an endless battlefield, or a black ocean that could not be breached.

 _An ocean of corpses_ , he thought, suddenly understanding the abject bleakness in the yōkai's eyes. It was the desperation of warriors who had been kept out too long on the field, watching their comrades fall and outposts burn and children cut down in the reeds. It spoke of the agony of survival, as if Susabi had touched upon a truth that had always been hidden just beneath Ren's skin: that every wish of hope for the living was equally matched by guilt for the dead.

" _No._ " Unable to bear the thought of such a burden winning out, Susabi shook his head fiercely, cutting through every lingering politeness that might have held him back. "What is lacking is _not_ your efforts, Ren. It _isn't_ because you haven't taken the time to learn and love humans. Humans _themselves_ cannot follow those principles yet. There is no perfect solution to these problems because they won't allow you to offer one. Not because you haven't tried hard enough. Not because you haven't attempted to give them what they need. And _not_ ," he added, running out of breath and feeling as if he had misused every word, "because you don't _care_. None of this is your fault, Ren. _None._ "

No answer came from Ren. Rather than protest, the yōkai looked up quickly towards the sky instead, blinking fast. He remained silent, swallowing hard, as if Susabi had flayed the voice from him while leaving his throat intact, refusing even the grace of a wound to show he had been hurt at all.

The reaction drained the anger out of Susabi as quickly as it came. Honesty was rarely a matter he had cause to regret; every word he had said was true.

For once, he wished with all his being that it was not.

"I am sorry," he acknowledged. Gritting his teeth, he gathered his feet under himself, wondering how fast he could return to Takamagahara without making it worse. The last thing Ren needed was to feel as if Susabi had cause to flee from him. "That was too brash of me. I have overstepped my bounds. Allow me to leave you in peace, with my apology."

"Stay."

Ren's reply was so swift that Susabi almost missed it. The yōkai hadn't changed position; his head remained tilted back, gaze resolutely fixed on the emptiness of the heavens, as if he was hoping a blade would gut him while he wasn't looking. His voice was weak and strained. "Just - just for a little while, please. Just - please. Stay with me."

They sat in silence together while the sun sank lower and lower towards evening. The stiffness of Ren's posture broke down by fractions; he opened his mouth to breathe shallowly through it, struggling with trying to keep an even pace for his lungs when every inhalation sounded ragged, a hair's breadth from a sob. His face did its best to remain blank, self-discipline working to block out any evidence of turmoil, so that Susabi only saw the small amounts that slipped past Ren's shields: the tightening of his fists, the small winces, the flinches as Ren pulled out the next memory he was not yet done mourning, and found it bleeding still.

The clouds turned crimson and orange above them, melting like a painter's masterpiece in the rain. Their dragons came back to roost, quietly slipping to coil around the trees.

Ren's eyes stayed turned up towards the sky, shimmering gold as the sun set, glistening like molten pools from tears unshed: one seeing, the other forever blind.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't skip the calendar, despite every temptation. He didn't attempt to scry the future, reminding himself of the strength of Ren's talismans. The yōkai possessed both experience and power; it would be an insult if Susabi overreacted to the slightest danger. Instead, he compromised on the side of common sense, and set his instruments to monitor the spiritual flow near the towns that Ren had described. The ornaments glittered as they hung in his workrooms like intricate sculptures, colors rippling with each new tremor of energy - but none of them shone with the brilliant flare of an emergency, or the warnings of too much strength unleashed.

In the evenings, Susabi held his breath as the wheels spun in his hands, a looping cycle of constellations that confirmed the flicker of Ren's presence: strong and steady.

After a week, he finally forced himself to put his worries to rest. The threat of the _gaki_ must have passed. Ren had survived the defense of the towns.

Again.

Holding himself to his promise - every new moon, every full - Susabi forced himself to concentrate on the daily work of Takamagahara, reviewing the integrity of the boundaries between worlds, and the constant flow of energy that would leak across even the best wards. But when the moon began to wax past the half-mark, edging closer and closer to full, he finally relented to impatience, and pulled down one of his instruments to scry directly for the yōkai's presence.

It was harmless, he told himself. If he had a sense of Ren's travel route, then he could properly bring a task from one of the nearest shrines to work on together, or have an inkling of other local spirits that might have drawn the yōkai's attention. If Ren had ended up near a river, perhaps they could enjoy a day by the water. Perhaps they could watch for fish, allow their dragons to splash recklessly, soak their feet in the water while they talked about nothing in particular, and let the long grasses shade them as they rested.

At first, the instrument refused to calibrate properly. Susabi frowned, shaking off the distraction of his own fantasies, and turned the carved loops carefully with his thumb as he sought to pinpoint the region. Apart from Ren's dragon, there were no signs of major spirits in the area - but there was only trace evidence of Ren's presence, which made little sense. Without supernatural concealment, the yōkai's power should have shown up as vividly as spilled wine across white silk. The territory was too wide for him to have left it already on foot, and he would never have left his dragon behind.

Finally, Susabi realized what had happened, and panic blazed the rest of his hesitation away.

Nothing was wrong with the surveying instrument. It was _Ren's_ energies which were weaker than usual - barely strong enough to even register their life force. If his dragon hadn't been there, Susabi would have overlooked the yōkai entirely, and assumed he had long moved on.

The moon was still several days from being fully ripe. Susabi ignored it, tearing through the bridge from Takamagahara to the human world with all the grace of a sawblade. He burst into the long sunlight of a mortal afternoon, deceptively warm and nurturing over the trees. There were no signs of any battle, no bloodshed or victims gasping out for revenge. Nothing suggested an easy answer to his fears.

He found Ren deep in the forest, curled against the trunk of a massive tree whose bark had aged into grooves deep enough to swallow a person's fingers to the knuckle. The yōkai had pulled his knees up so that he could huddle against it for support, like a wounded animal that had chosen to tuck itself into a ball and hope for fate alone to decide if it would heal or not. His breathing was shallow, shoulders barely moving, as if he was dwindling away even as Susabi watched, losing a little more of himself with each draught of air that escaped his lungs. His dragon was draped in a weak coil on the tree's roots, barely twitching even as Susabi approached.

Susabi wasted no time in reaching out for the yōkai - and came to a halt with his fingers still outstretched, his instincts screaming at the sudden awareness of impurity in the air. An unmistakable miasma of _kegare_ clung to Ren's body, wrapped around him like a decaying sheet that had soaked up the fluid from a hundred rotting corpses. Every inch of Susabi wanted to recoil away, repulsed by the foulness; he forced himself to hold his ground, and not retreat.

"Ren," he asked, urgently. "Are you well?"

The yōkai stirred, eyes squinting into a hard wince even as he forced them to open, turning his head painfully towards Susabi's voice. It took him a moment to focus, but he attempted a faint smile, as if bravery alone might succeed in concealing his appearance. "My apologies, Susabi," he finally managed. "There was a _jorōgumo_ near here with whom... I had a disagreement with. Luckily, there is a river only a short distance north. I intended to purify myself there," he added, shutting his eyes momentarily in an exhaustion he couldn't entirely hide. "I was regrettably delayed. I will cleanse myself as soon as I can."

Susabi grit his teeth against his warring impulses, wanting to both pull the yōkai to him, and stay back to avoid defilement of himself as well. The negativity that pooled over the yōkai had coagulated into a thick haze, a complex series of pollutions formed from fears and hatreds that could not be mortal alone. On his own, Susabi was powerful enough to dispel the impurity - but there was more going on, something that had rooted inside Ren's heart, and not addressing that would simply ignore one injury in favor of another. There would be no purpose in wiping off the distortion from Ren's soul if he unconsciously invited it back again, a spiral of self-fulfilling despair that would inevitably drag the yōkai into death. "Tell me what happened."

He instantly regretted pressing Ren to answer when the yōkai pushed himself upright, stifling a groan. One of his horns scraped carelessly against the tree's trunk, dulling its sheen even further with flecks of bark. A long scratch marred his cheek, crusted over with dried blood; dirt and ichor stained his body as if he had been soaked in it. "West, where the rivers crest the cliffs," he began. "The _jorōgumo_ had taken up residence near one of the waterfalls by the village, that fed the fields and wells. She was capturing village children - boys, mostly. She took a girl by accident, which is the only reason the child stayed alive long enough for me to reach her."

Watching Ren struggle to keep his head lifted was painful to watch - and surely even more so for the yōkai to maintain. Susabi crouched down to make it easier on him, studying the other spirit intently. A spider's poison was no small thing; the shape of the tragedy was already starting to come clear. "Were the villagers able to lure the _jorōgumo_ out?"

Ren closed his eyes by way of answer: no. "They did not believe the threat was real, let alone the risk. No hunters had even been sent. I found her on my own, in the cave tunnels by the waterfall, and asked her to stop." He shifted his shoulders, exhaling slowly, his eyes still shut - as if he had already begun to drift so deeply that he had forgotten he was not simply entrenched in a dream. "She refused. She held a grudge against one of the head families there, and would not rest until every last blood relative was destroyed. Since the girl was blameless, however, the _jorōgumo_ offered to trade her back to me... in exchange for one of my legs."

 _"What?"_

At Susabi's horrified question, the yōkai finally opened his eyes again, mouth twitching in a facsimile of a smile. His chuckle was as dry as a sparrow's corpse, mummifying slowly in the sun. "Fear not, Susabi. I declined. I knew how much you would complain." His sigh lost all humor then, but his gaze, at least, flickered over the woods, attempting to remain present. "So... we had to fight. It took a long time. A very, very long time."

Extended battle and bloodshed: two more factors that added physical agony to the list. Malice from the _jorōgumo_ , the bitterness of a grudge. Violence and hostile intent. Pain, too, contributed to _kegare_ , both for the one inflicting and the one who experienced it. Susabi frowned. "Did she survive?"

"I hoped that she would. But," and Ren broke off there, unable to utter the rest, only shaking his head. His fingers pressed together weakly in his lap, first in a slow pressure, then hard enough to whiten his knuckles despite the grime on his skin. "The girl was alive, when I found her - hungry, frightened, but alive. But... the village was not happy with the tale she brought back to them of a spider's curse. They accused her of delusions. They accused her family, as well, of making up the tale to stain their honor. They blamed one another for allowing the children to stray too far in the first place. Even her parents were displeased, saying how unlucky it was that _she_ survived but that their own favorite son did not. Her mother..."

Here, Ren's voice, already weak, faltered further. His dragon made a shiver, whining as it sought to bring its head up to lean across the yōkai's leg. Ren gathered it to him in short, painful motions, shifting his position by fractions until it was close enough to drape its chin over his knee, both of them too weary to do more than sprawl.

To the dulled color of its scales, he continued. "Her mother said that, if she had a choice, she would have gladly lost her daughter if it meant getting her son back. Her father - that he would have been happy if she did not come back at all, having brought the wrath of the head family against them. That girl will have to carry that knowledge around with her for the rest of her life," Ren added softly, his fingers pausing in their soothing strokes across the dragon's head. "But when I went to the child that night, and offered to take her to another village, she said that even though I had rescued her once, she could not see how anywhere else would be better. That she had been better off with the _jorōgumo_. And... perhaps she would have been, at that point. Perhaps she would have been."

"She _would_ have," Susabi snapped brusquely, unable to keep the acid in his thoughts from reaching his voice. "If the villagers had continued to refuse any action, the girl would have been turned into a _jorōgumo_ as well, and then perhaps the elder spider would have found enough satisfaction in having a family of her own to be convinced to stop. And better for her to be with one who would love her, than in a human village whose poison is far worse."

It was twice as cruel for him to say the words aloud, when both of them already knew that outcome. Cruel - but necessary to drag the venom out in the open, so that Ren would not be tempted to shoulder the truth on his own. The yōkai's mouth was already turning down. "Yes," he admitted in a whisper; he had already come to that conclusion, had already played it out in his mind. "After that, I went back to the tunnels to lay the bodies to rest. I buried the _jorōgumo_ in the tunnels that had been her home, so she would have that peace. I buried the children outside, where their spirits would have fresh air. And then I... I had to stop a while to rest. I was just... very tired."

There. That was the explanation in full. Guilt would have easily cut through Ren's shields far faster than any fang or claw. It would have festered more effectively than any toxin, steeping a lethal elixir made of violence, death - and most of all - resentment and misery. Everything had added up until Ren's heart had lent its own despair into the mix, solidifying into layer upon layer of negative energies, a level of _kegare_ that would sicken any human, let alone a spirit.

If Susabi had been the one to confront the village, he knew what he would have done: pinpointed the cause, visited the head family in a vision, and then pointed out that their choices were to either take action or die. That would have been the end of it. The rest would have been up to them.

But _Ren_ had been there instead, unwilling to offer the same ultimatum. And now the yōkai had a fresh set of corpses to add to the litany in his soul, forced onto him by humans who were all too willing to abandon the responsibility for their own dead.

Leaning forward into the yōkai's space, gritting his teeth against the putrid energies that thickened the air, Susabi reached out and took Ren's face in his hands to turn it upwards. The sting of pollution prickled on his skin, like trying to cradle a live sea urchin against his flesh. "The villagers were the only ones who could have resolved it, Ren. It was their responsibility to ferret out the corruption of one of their own. The fact that they did not is _their_ choice. You have done what you were able, and tried sincerely to fix matters afterwards. Inaction on your part would have meant even more dead innocents to pay the price," he added grimly. "Yes, the villagers will take refuge in denial, and never accept their role in this tragedy. But that is up to _them_ now, Ren. You can do no more. None of us can. We can only aid those still living, and respect the cost of the dead."

Ren reached up and set his fingers on the backs of Susabi's hands, along the wrists, turning his face towards Susabi's palm. "I know," he acknowledged, his lips ghosting against Susabi's skin. His eyes had gone shut again, still stubbornly denying his own voice, hoping beyond hope for an alternative. "I know."

Susabi let himself linger, his fingertips tracing along the yōkai's jaw. One moment, and then another - and then he could not ignore the way time was slipping away any longer, and Ren's life with it.

"You fool," he whispered quietly, not sure which one of them he was speaking to. He stood reluctantly, feeling Ren's touch drop away. "Stay here."

He didn't waste any time. It took longer than he liked to gather the things he needed from Takamagahara, hunting recklessly through the supplies in his estate like a storm. He moved as quickly as he could, flinging open cabinets and leaving them wide as he raced from room to room, not caring for the chaos left behind in his wake.

Even with all his rushing, by the time Susabi returned, Ren had already slumped back against the tree; the yōkai did not open his eyes even when Susabi called his name, soft and urgent. His dragon's lungs were wheezing quietly, a raspy bellows that was all too quiet in the stillness of the night.

 _Water and salt, to let the ocean wash all things away,_ Susabi thought firmly, focusing on the stages of the ritual rather than allowing fear to override his wits. The bowl in his arms was full of sacred water from Takamagahara itself. He had dumped salt into it already, spilling it like a flurry of snow across his worktable. He was glad for the haste now, however; it meant he was already halfway prepared. Without waiting, he dunked the sakaki branch into the water and stirred the mixture up, hoping for the salt to dissolve quickly even as he soaked half his sleeve along with the leaves.

"Stand up," he ordered Ren, hoping the yōkai still had enough strength left for that much.

For a moment - as the other spirit did not stir - Susabi was afraid that Ren was already too far gone, but Ren's dragon finally whined and nudged hard against the yōkai's elbow. Ren's eyes slid open again, groggily. Inch by inch, leaning on both the dragon and the tree, the yōkai pushed himself to his feet, his head tilted back limply against the rough bark, his throat speckled with dried blood.

"Yes," he acknowledged, granting permission and participation both.

The ritual was far less formal than either of them had been part of in the past, but it didn't have to be; the familiarity it was what mattered most. A single memory could be more potent than any elixir: it could stand as a reminder that a person had survived once in the past, and could do so again. Recovery was possible, even if the present moment seemed too bleak to ever overcome. If Susabi could remind Ren of times when the yōkai had felt grounded as a god, of other purifications he had both received and given - then, maybe, it would be enough to remind Ren that he could survive this tragedy as well.

The poisonous energies that had attached themselves to Ren were the first parasitic influences that had to go, before anything else could be addressed. Satisfied that the salt had finally dissolved, Susabi lifted the sakaki branch and flicked the moisture onto Ren's body and face with enough force that water sloshed over the edges of the bowl; a messy gesture, one which would have earned him a glare from any priest. Susabi didn't care. He dipped the branch again to wet it, dousing the dragon, and then twice more for each of them as he slashed at the air around them both, using quick, brutal gestures. With its ties severed by ritual, the miasma finally began to part - but it lingered in a malevolent haze, refusing to be shed so easily, not with Ren's spirit still vulnerable.

Narrowing his eyes, Susabi tucked the branch into his sleeve and thrust the bowl out towards Ren. "Wash yourself," he commanded.

Moving gingerly, Ren dipped his fingers slowly into the liquid, soaking them first and then cupping a fistful. He splashed his face obediently, squinting as the salt water dripped down his forehead and into his eyes, over the cut on his face and into the scrapes of his fingers. Silent despite the pain, he brought up his hands again, rinsed his skin again, rubbing his body until every inch of exposed skin was soaked. The edges of his cloak were dark with water. His bangs were quickly drenched, plastered to his face; he wiped them back clumsily, washing his dragon as well, pouring handfuls of fluid over the creature's scales wherever he could reach.

Susabi held the bowl patiently as Ren went through the motions, visibly gaining strength with each repetition. Every cycle was an improvement - the yōkai was already breathing easier, his one good eye bright again, more alert, though his slender fingers were shaking as he started to come out of his haze. The miasma had dulled his wits with agony, but now that it had released him, Ren no longer had anything else as a distraction; he could not escape his own pain through the blessing of unconsciousness. The yōkai rinsed his mouth last, and then his hands a final time, and then stood there helplessly, as if unsure what to do now that he was fully awake once more.

Susabi set the bowl down on the ground without hesitation, and went directly to him.

He could feel the imbalance still lingering, a wavering uncertainty in Ren's spiritual essence. The external pollution had been dislodged, but it was the same as removing a thorn from a wound: the damage was still there, still hurting, and vulnerable to infection. Without a second thought, Susabi slid off his _geta_ sandals and kicked them aside, standing with his _tabi_ in the dirt, closing the height difference between them as much as he could. He leaned his forehead down to Ren's hair, cradling the yōkai's face in his hands as he closed his own eyes, whispering the words to invoke the blessings of Takamagahara and all the gods who dwelt there.

If he were human, he would have no choice but to ring the bells and use a _haraegushi_ wand, and hope the gods who had blessed it had enough power - but the prayers were the same, both now and then. He had whispered and shouted and sung them in the past; these were no formal _norito_ , but words for battle, and this struggle was no less vital than any other he had fought.

Ren shuddered, but his hands came up, gripping Susabi's arms back. His shoulders spasmed in cries that could not become full tears: grief for an inescapable reality, the sorrow of having tried and failed and made things worse, the guilt of failure, the sorrow of knowing that _nothing_ was solved, and the only conclusion was a never-ending spiral of decay. It was a tide of every futile protest that could be made against the world, of a cycle that refused to be broken even as it tormented those bound by it - and yet, Susabi did not let go, willing his own warmth into his palms, forgiving everything he could think of for an act that had no blame.

He did not know how much comfort the ritual provided, and how much was simply another person's presence. When he ran out of words, he stood breathless anyway, praying to his _own_ strength that it might help Ren somehow, as if his divinity could reach out and breathe strength into another's body. He clutched at Ren as if the yōkai were an ember in his fingers, a warmth that would eventually wither and go out for lack of fuel - but which Susabi would protect for as long as it was cupped in his hands. He had summoned a new realm within the circle of their arms, and he was cradling the only thing he could hope to protect inside it: the only thing he could try to shelter in a world so full of suffering, by blocking out anything and everything that sought to get past him.

Slowly, the shreds of negative energy continued to fall away, leaving behind simple physical weariness from the toll they had taken on the yōkai's stamina. The taint of _kegare_ lightened under his hands. Ren's shoulders went gradually slack, loosening from their tension, the worst of the grief lanced out and allowed to bleed away without further harm.

He didn't know how long they both stood there. Ren had gone quiet and warm against him; his breathing was deep and steady. It felt like forever, and yet, not nearly long enough.

Ren's dragon finally stirred and rumbled low in its throat, hungry and restless. Susabi blinked, his muscles aching as he straightened up, dizzy from standing immobile for so long that he felt displaced from time itself. The sun had gone low to the horizon. Rich oranges and golds already streaked the sky, warning of the night soon to come.

Ren looked worn, but far stronger as Susabi glanced down at him; some color had gone back into the yōkai's face, and he merely looked exhausted instead of deathly ill. He hadn't released Susabi's sleeves. When Susabi moved gingerly, trying to restore circulation back into his feet, Ren blinked and looked up.

"Thank you," he murmured gratefully. His fingers squeezed Susabi's arms, firm enough that it was a reassurance of the strength starting to return. "I know that there is only so much that can be done. But... it helps to hear it again, from someone who understands. It helps so much. Thank you."

"I should pour the rest of the bowl over your _head,_ " Susabi glowered back. He stretched his shoulders, feeling a warning twinge deep in the muscles. Ignoring the pain, he reached out carefully to try and smooth down Ren's hair, running his fingertips along the yōkai's scalp where the horns rose gracefully skywards. He grimaced at the drying, streaked salt residue that coated Ren's skin, the red of his cuts newly irritated. "If this happens again," he added, less critically this time, "I want you to tell me immediately."

It was an impossible request. Ren had no method of finding him, of calling out all the way to Takamagahara to let Susabi know that something was wrong. Ren knew it, too; the yōkai's expression was bordering on exasperated as he glanced back up, holding himself still underneath Susabi's touch.

"I am not your duty, Susabi." The slight shake of his head was worse than any frown. "It is my own responsibility to take care of myself. But... it is true that there is no one who can purify me of _kegare_ , should I become injured badly again like this. I should probably take a contract with an onmyōji master," he admitted heavily, with a sigh that he could not entirely conceal. "The spiritual power they can provide is no small thing, and it would sustain me, for a time."

"A master would use you poorly," Susabi retorted automatically, reaching up again to untangle a few of Ren's hairs that were starting to stick together in unruly loops. "I would kill them if they dared to bind you."

The touch on his arm arrested him; he looked down to see Ren's slender fingers weighing down the crook of his arm, gentle, but absolute in their command.

"You would not," the yōkai said softly. The words held no reproach in them, but they were as unarguable as the moon's pull on the ocean, unrelenting as law. "Not for this."

Susabi opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Ren's left eye had regained its sheen - but the right one never would, and its dullness was all the more marked now that they were standing together. He could easily imagine them both blotted out; he could imagine them missing altogether, or closed forever in death.

"For what, then?" he whispered at last, offering the rhetoric as a fisherman might toss an unbaited hook: knowing it would catch nothing, but lying to themselves even as they threw. "What would I be allowed to do for you, in defense against the world?"

Ren had more mercy than he did; the yōkai eased the pressure of his hand, straightening Susabi's sleeve in a tacit apology. "You cannot protect me from humans, Susabi. No matter what walls are put up to create a barrier between them and myself, I will always step outside to find them again. But - it is nothing for you to worry about. We all have our duties, and yours are much larger than mine. Your purpose in this world is greater than I am. I _know_ this," he added, and it felt like as much resignation as recognition. "It is fine."

Susabi found himself swallowing hard.

"Go to the stream," he said. His voice felt rough, thick, and he didn't know why. He cleared his throat, releasing the yōkai reluctantly, though there was no longer any significant miasma to be concerned with. "I will send a spirit to ensure that everything was finished thoroughly with the _jorōgumo_. They will guard the child, and protect her from retaliation. You can close the matter in your thoughts after this." He did not need to say that the gods would only be able to shield the girl from her fellow villagers - not her own heart. There was no need for the reminder; he had done enough harm to Ren already. "Take your time in washing yourself clean. I will bring you fresh clothes from the weavers of Takamagahara, and dispose of your ruined ones."

Refusing to allow himself any more luxury, Susabi pulled away and hooked the straps of his _geta_ in his fingers. The bowl - nearly empty now, just a shallow pooling of water at the bottom - went tucked in his arm as he left. With the yōkai out of danger, Susabi could afford to gather better supplies from his estate; Ren would not fit any of his own clothing, but even the simplest garments in Takamagahara were well-woven and comfortable, and Susabi could fetch spares from the trainee supplies until he could petition the weavers to create a new set that would fit the yōkai's height. He dug out fresh _tabi_ for himself, changing quickly out of his damp robes. His dragon - concerned by his twice-abandonment as he had rushed around Takamagahara without coming to fetch it - nosed up to him, snuffling deeply at the scent of the yōkai in his clothes, and snorting in affront at the leftover miasma that was still in the process of dissipating.

By the time Susabi returned, it was well into night. The skies were clear, allowing the moon's light to spread freely over whatever it touched; the river was wide and flowed sluggishly, unhurried in its efforts to descend towards the sea. Ren's destination had been easy to find. Susabi had been able to easily identify the water's location from his workroom, and, more importantly, Ren's presence nearby. The yōkai's energies had started to kindle back to their usual strength, and they were a welcome beacon for Susabi to follow.

He pushed through the trees, following the smell of the river, and found Ren already there.

The yōkai was waist-deep in the middle of the waters, coated in the silver of the moon. His hair spooled out around him, clinging to his skin like wet silk, streaking his body in glistening trails. He wasn't paying attention to his own health, but was instead washing his dragon meticulously as it splashed over the waters, attending to it with a relaxed, tender smile as it shook itself off with each attempted scrub.

In that moment, Susabi realized he was staring longer than he dared. He should have turned away, given the yōkai privacy - but even as he was trying to summon the willpower, his own dragon dove eagerly towards the river, making no attempt to hide its presence.

Ren's dragon caught sight of its companion, rearing up with a splash - and Ren, turning around, saw them both.

His smile widened. "Susabi."

Even from a distance, the yōkai already looked healthier. The _jorōgumo_ had left more wounds than Susabi realized - not just the scrape on Ren's face, but also across his arms and chest - but none of them looked deep, and none were still bleeding. As Susabi watched, Ren dabbled his fingers in the water, and then lifted his hand in invitation. A patter of drops ran down the yōkai's wrist, tracing the skin all the way down to his elbow, like starlight spinning itself into glass. "The water is pleasant tonight. Would you like to join me?"

Susabi's breath turned to stone in his lungs. "I," he said, and stopped entirely.

His mouth was dry. His senses ached with desire, raw need leaping hot as a fire that seared his thoughts to ash. All he could think about was how much he wanted to run his hands over Ren and pull the yōkai close again, and then - and then confirm for himself that Ren's health had been restored. That was all. That was _all._

Except it wasn't.

He could not tell if the vivid image in his thoughts was true prophecy or his imagination, but all he could see was the vision of himself slipping off his robes and leaving them behind on the riverbank as he slid into the water. The pebbles would be cold under his feet. He would walk slowly towards Ren as the water rippled around them both, careful not to slip. And then - then he would reach Ren, and Ren's hands would lift up towards him, Susabi would touch his face, and they would be as close again as if they had never parted.

Only now, in his mind, Susabi was running his hands down Ren's neck, down his shoulders, fingers tracing his chest. Ren was making a soft sigh, his own hands skimming along Susabi's waist. He would feel the heat of Ren's body, so close in the water; he would keep the yōkai warm against the slight chill of the river by pressing him against his own skin. Their legs would bump against each other. Their hips -

Susabi wrestled his gaze away from the river, which made it only marginally easier to think; he turned mindlessly towards the rocks where Ren's clothing had been neatly folded, a tidy pile that would have to be replaced. "My dragon will watch over you until you are finished," he declared loudly, trying to banish all thoughts of intimacy from his mind. His voice felt stilted; he forced it to work. "There is - there is business I must attend to back up in Takamagahara. I shall set a ward over you to protect you for the evening, and confirm your health tomorrow."

It wasn't until he returned to his own estate that he finally allowed himself to breathe again. Even then - even with the mess of his workrooms to attend to - he sat in helpless silence, staring at nothing as his thoughts refused to calm, whirling like a tsunami that threatened to wash away everything and leave him with a wreckage where his soul had once been.

Susabi's mortal life had always been dedicated to his own villagers. None of them had dared approach him with an affection that implied a personal attachment - but he'd been lucky, he knew grimly. If other voices had been stronger, his weakening powers would have been blamed on age, and he might have been forced to breed in hopes of him passing them along. One of the villagers might have tried to feign devotion. One of them might have been good enough at lying.

Susabi had loved all his villagers, and then he had been afraid of them and then he had died. After that, he hadn't wanted anyone around him in more than passing contact; he hadn't _craved_ them in his life, not when kindness only led to punishment.

But now, he couldn't stop thinking about Ren, in a thousand different ways that slid out of his control. He wanted to pull the yōkai to him and hold him in the protection of his reach, to learn every inch of the other spirit's body and know that it was healthy and safe. To delight Ren with the simplest of talismans that he had found from one shrine or another; to watch as Ren went through the painstaking work of braiding cords with no greater desire than to protect the mortals who would wear them.

He wanted to build a world where Ren would be able to smile every day, where the two of them could block out everything else and create a simple haven, where Ren would know that he would never be left standing alone again, watching quietly as everyone walked away. That Ren didn't have to huddle wounded in a forest with just himself and his dragon, because someone would be there _for_ him now. He wanted to show Ren _all_ of this, in every way possible: through his hands, through his touch, through the rhythm of his voice whispering promises into Ren's ears, prayers that would cause Ren to close his eyes and smile again, knowing with certainty that he was treasured this time, that he was -

That he was loved.

The walls of Susabi's study were lined with books and scrolls, with tools of spellcraft and ritual, knowledge that could only be found in the heavens - but none of them offered any answers as Susabi stared at them in helpless desperation. His wits refused to still. All they did was fly in a whirlwind of scattered directions, leaving the center of him aching around the realization that sat like a pillar of stone in his chest, immobile and eternal.

The stars outside were silent, wheeling and glittering outside in endless constellations. The feeling did not ebb, even as Susabi sat there throughout the night, unable to stop wanting, until it felt as if his entire essence had been transformed into a single incantation, a new _norito_ singing in place of his soul: _Ren, Ren, Ren._

* * *

He fed Ren for a week straight after that, bringing food that was half an apology and half a plea. The trays were tightly packed with fresh fish and seaweed, fruit and vegetables that had been selected with exacting care from the season's best. It was the finest rice, the strongest tea and wine. All were of the highest quality, fit for any noblemen's table - or as offerings for a god.

"Are you certain you do not have a shrine of your own?" Ren laughed, halfway through the week, when Susabi showed up with yet another tray heavy with dishes. "Or are you stealing food from the heavens instead?"

"I came by it honestly, if that's your concern," Susabi said stiffly, not wanting to reveal the number of favors he had volunteered to do for half the gods as trade.

But the quality mattered, both physically and spiritually. Food which had been selected as an offering had a deliberate purpose behind it, garnished with prayers of gratitude to flavor its essence. It was that intent rather than the richness of the food itself which made it truly nourishing for spirits, imbued with the wishes and hopes of the people. Most importantly, it would have been fare that Ren himself would have customarily eaten, back when he had been enshrined, and would provide him with far more strength than any common meal.

If Ren realized the origin of his meals, he did not let on. His appetite was healthy, though he always made sure to feed his dragon in equal amounts from his own plate - and Susabi's dragon as well, if Susabi didn't keep an eye on it.

 _This cannot be allowed to continue_ , Susabi reminded himself, as Ren split apart dumplings with his fingers and held them out to his dragon to be devoured. Even without the benefit of prophecy, even _if_ Ren tried his best to observe his own limits, Susabi knew how the yōkai's story would end. All it would take would be a combination of poor luck, or too many villages at risk in a row, and Ren's life would be bled away forever.

 _I do not expect to live that long_ , he remembered Ren saying, in what felt like a lifetime ago. At the time, it had been regrettable to hear. Now it was an intolerable thought. Both of the obvious options - either entrust Ren to an onmyōji, or to humans as their enshrined god - were equally unpalatable. That, or force Ren to change his nature somehow, and never have faith again.

Killing the yōkai with his own hands would be kinder.

He could not think of a solution. He dared not try and divine one. His thoughts were in constant disarray, and risked leaping to all the worst conclusions; attempting a prophecy in such a state would only skew the results far past inaccuracy. Now that he had touched Ren - and Ren had touched him back, beyond all their casual moments in the past - it was as if a tipping point had been crossed that had permanently shattered the careful balance in Susabi's thoughts. He wanted to reach out and touch Ren all the time now, in deliberate moments rather than accidental contact. He wanted to pull Ren to him, as if sight alone was not enough reassurance that the yōkai was still alive; he wanted to keep Ren inside the circle of his arms forever, feeling the yōkai's heartbeat like a drumbeat paired to Susabi's own.

Ren, too, seemed nearer than ever before, as if Susabi's desperation was a string being woven tighter and tighter on a loom, bowing the cloth in half with its need. The yōkai didn't seem to mind the change; if anything, he shifted naturally into it, accepting their new proximity. They sat closer, spoke closer, their spaces overlapping. Their hands lingered when they touched, as if forgetting they should pull away.

One afternoon, when they were resting in a grove of ginkgos - traveling towards a farming community that already had its own shrine for protection, and was therefore in very little danger - they ended up leaning against the same tree, shoulders pressed together. Its leaves were thick, fluttering above them like a bevy of miniature fans at a noble's court. The air was clean and calm. With no threats to the farmers, there was no need to rush. Susabi turned his head just enough that he could breathe in the scent of Ren's hair: a fractional movement, easily overlooked as an indulgence.

But when he shifted his arm to let Ren settle closer against him, his fingers nudged against the back of the yōkai's hand, and he suddenly froze, uncertain of how apparent his actions were.

Then - as Susabi held his breath, denying each moment for fear that he might blink and find himself mistaken - Ren slowly turned his palm, until his fingers were interlacing with Susabi's, both of them reaching instinctively for the other.

They sat there like that, both of them quiet, until their dragons came racing back and begged for dinner.

As if by unspoken agreement, their days started to begin earlier and end later, until Susabi would arrive with the dawn to find Ren already awake and waiting. The calendar seemed more and more arbitrary, an agreement that restrained rather than provide a guide - until, one evening, Ren broached the inevitable question.

"Would you stay for the night, Susabi?" They had both shed their outer layers in the warmth of the afternoon, and Ren had his cloak bundled in his arms; Susabi had shrugged his own robe over his shoulders awkwardly, trying to summon up the motivation to leave. "The woods are quiet in this area, and the sun has been quite beautiful through the bamboo in the morning. It would be... pleasant to have you here to see it, with me."

Susabi's fingers froze in wrapping his _obi_. "Would you want me here that long?"

"Yes," Ren answered simply. In a few swift steps, he had crossed the space between them - but his hand was slow and careful as he reached up, catching stray hairs that had been trapped in the collar of Susabi's robe, freeing them gently away from the taller man's neck. "But, I am surely being selfish in asking at this hour. The evening is already late, and you have had not any chance to prepare. Yet - tomorrow, perhaps, if you have time after your work..."

The question trailed off, hopeful, its wings barely begun to spread. All Susabi could see was Ren's face turned up towards him, radiant and waiting. "The moon," he protested, not even sure why he was trying to argue, save that it was the one coherent thought he could manage against the sensation of Ren's fingertips sliding into his scalp. "We would be past the proper time to meet."

The warm, gentle pressure of Ren's fingers on the back of his neck felt like an invitation only moments from being invoked. "Whenever you are here, Susabi, then it is always the right time for me."

The permission was too much. Susabi's hands twitched, fighting to remain rigid on his _obi_. All it would take would be a single excuse, a single reason not to observe propriety, and the rest of the distance between them would come crashing down, leaving them splintered in its wake.

"If I intend to come back tomorrow," he whispered, his voice thick in his throat, "then you will be the only thing I think about all day."

They watched each other, swallowing silence. Susabi found himself searching Ren's face, sifting inflections in a desperate attempt to find the best thing to say next. He could not interpret the shifting of the yōkai's expression, a mixture of hope and trepidation that echoed what coiled in Susabi's own chest. He yearned for something to shatter the impasse and make the decision for him - and was terrified at the same time, terrified that he might be making a hundred mistakes, all of which would ruin everything forever between them.

Ren was the one who broke first. His fingers slipped down, down and away, like butterfly ghosts skipping across Susabi's chest. "There is - there is some matter to the east of here that I should look into," he fumbled, looking as helpless as Susabi felt. He glanced aside quickly; Susabi could see how fast the yōkai was breathing, sharp and shallow. "I should... see how the plum tree spirits are doing. It has been a while since I last spoke with them. I will not distract you further. Go," he insisted gently, still looking at the ground even as he stepped back out of reach, tucking up his hands beneath his cloak as if he could not trust them to otherwise behave. "I will see you next when the moon is dark, and then you can brighten the skies again for me."

* * *

The weeks of waiting helped calm Susabi's nerves - and eroded them even further, like water gently lapping at a beach and carrying it away, grain by grain. He did not know how he would refuse, if Ren asked again. He did not even know exactly how much Ren might have meant by the offer. All Susabi could be certain of was the strength of his own desire, which had to be contained before it grew completely out of control, and devoured something it should never be allowed to touch.

By the time the next moon phase crept around, Susabi had scavenged a sufficient distraction in the way of work for them to tackle. One of the younger gods had been wrestling with improvements to their own shrine, and had brought a request for help in preparing the paper _shide_ ; the head priest suffered from arthritis in his fingers, and was willing to allow a spirit from Takamagahara to assist in the number of meticulous folds and trims.

They took their shade in a bamboo grove that day, surrounded by a chorus of leaves that whispered readily at every stray breeze, their stalks swaying like dancers already enraptured by sleep. As they sorted through the papers, carefully arranging them to be cut and measured, Susabi hesitated and finally laid the question out in the open. "Do you miss it? If you became a village god again, you would not be able to travel the land as freely as you do now. Would it be enough for you to stay in a single shrine again, and wait for people to come to you instead?"

He almost didn't catch the slight, rueful pull to the corner of Ren's lips; if he hadn't known the yōkai so well, he would have missed it entirely. The truth was _yes_ , then, but also _no_. "Would you still visit me there, if I did?" was all the spirit replied. "You would always have a place in my shrine. We could perform the rituals properly there, together. I could think of no one better than you to be there with me."

 _Yes_ , Susabi wanted to say; he drew breath for the courage to say it. But it was too much, too quickly: his own imagination recoiled and struck him like a whip across bare flesh, cutting deep. He could envision exactly what it would be like to wear _jo-e_ robes and cross under the gates - only this time, it would be the serene face of Ren standing there inside the sanctuary, turning towards him from in front of the _haiden_ , welcoming him inside. It would be Ren who would receive his words of devotion.

It would be Ren who would offer himself up as a target first, if humans ever needed a scapegoat to blame.

If Ren had been one of the deities of Susabi's village, he would have thrown himself into the waters instead, rather than let any of his worshippers prey upon each other. He would have carried the entire sum of the villagers' hate. Not because he thought he deserved it, but because he honestly might have thought it was the best way for them to vent their poison: to take it upon himself, the same way he had accepted the loss of his eye. Suffering nobly had nothing to do with it; Susabi knew enough about the yōkai to recognize that his very essence was dedicated towards protection, not the glorification of pain.

No. Ren followed a far more merciless ideal. Ren would have been strong when they refused to be, because the yōkai knew _someone_ had to. He would have given himself up willingly to protect Susabi's mortal life - and Susabi choked down a stifled, agonized noise in his throat as he imagined the villagers beating Ren the same way, burning and bruising him, taking out their resentment freely upon his body instead.

And Ren noticed. He drew himself up, startled, his focus already sharp before Susabi could construct a decent excuse to deflect him. "This also pains you," he said softly, alarm coming into his face as he considered the months they had spent together. " _All_ of this has been hurting you. Not simply the _norito_. I am sorry, Susabi. I am sorry -"

Lying would be futile. The rituals had stopped grating upon Susabi's nerves, but something else had replaced it instead, an ache of wanting and denial. "It's a trivial pain," he declared with a dismissive snap of his hand, not sure if he meant the shrines, or whatever else was dwelling in his chest these days. He set the paper in his hands down roughly, and picked up a fresh sheet. "Consider it to be of less worth than dust."

Ren was not so easily deterred. His hands lifted automatically, starting to reach out - and then stopped halfway, opening and closing helplessly like the final beats of a heart in surrender. "No. Not to me, Susabi. Never to me."

 _Of course_ , Susabi thought sourly, blocking out the sight of Ren by rubbing his temples, hiding behind his own hand. A spirit so intent on sheltering others couldn't call himself a protector if he had failed in something so simple. And now, Susabi had surely ruined Ren's memories of their time together, just as the village had ruined Susabi's. "I hurt _myself_ with useless thoughts," he said aloud, "and nothing that will become a reality. If it would help to set your mind at ease, then tell me what you miss most about the work, and I will tell you if it is too much."

For a moment, it appeared as if Ren would not answer, his eyes still wide and pleading - then something broke in his willpower, like a flood shattering a dam. "I miss _all_ of it," he admitted softly, the vulnerability opening wide in unguarded confession. "I miss blessing my own _omamori_ , I miss reading the _ema_. I miss the taste of fresh salt offered as part of the _shinsen_. I miss watching the priests renew the shrine each year, preparing fresh _shide_ and _shimenawa_. I miss seeing the smiles of my villagers as they began to gather the supplies for the yearly festivals, welcoming each new season. I miss hearing my priests late at night, when they were closing up the shrine and it would be only the two of us, and they knew they confide anything to me, and I would listen. I miss seeing children grow into adulthood and begin families of their own, bringing them to the shrine for their first introduction to me, so I would know their faces and always love them." It was a litany of yearning, a plea that begged quietly with each delicately restrained word. "I miss feeling the hearts of my people connected to me. If I focused on them - on just their small space in this realm - I always thought I might be able to make a difference in their lives. I didn't have to worry about the entire world. I only had to worry about them. It was simpler, yes, and perhaps cowardly. Even so... I miss _everything_."

Susabi frowned. It was the first time he could remember hearing Ren admit to any desire to return - not simply to the village, but to his entire past. _Go home_ , he wanted to tell Ren - but there was no home like that anymore, not for either of them. There was only what loss had taught them both was safe to befriend.

"Why did they turn their backs on you?" he asked. He had always avoided the question before, but now he needed to know - if only to remind Ren that it had happened, that he _shouldn't_ still harbor compassion for the very same people who had abandoned him to a slow, starving death.

Ren accepted his inquiry with a nod. "The storm... did not destroy the village, but it did damage it. The villagers were too busy rebuilding, and could not easily make the climb back up to the shrine. The priest was elderly - I was happier that he stayed at the foot of the mountain, rather than force himself to exhaustion just to see me." Despite the pleasantness of his denials, Ren's gaze was fixed rigidly towards the ground. He kept his hands motionless on his knees, his words shaped carefully on his tongue, as if he were swearing a promise over and over again, saying the words a thousand times to force them into reality like a spell incantation: _it's okay. I'm happy this way. It doesn't hurt._

"And then, the priest passed away, before he could properly train a replacement. By that time, the villagers had so much else to concern themselves with. They stopped visiting. They stopped hunting on the mountain, and did not climb it anymore. They did not search it for herbs or plants. I waited - "

And here Ren's voice finally broke. Despite his self-control, despite his best attempts to appear unmoved, he could not keep his own body from revealing his heart. Hair trickled down over the right side of his face as he lowered his head, like a threadworn burial shroud drawn over the eye beneath. He did not brush it away; there was no reason to pretend he could see.

But the moment passed, with nothing left behind save the whispers of ghosts lingering in the strain of his throat. Ren steadied himself and nodded once. "I waited until there was no shrine any longer, and the land was no longer held sacred in their minds. And then I knew they had no need of a god on the mountain any more. And I was glad. For that meant they were not in danger. They did not need to remember me."

Susabi searched his face, but there was only truth there, unflinching: Ren meant every word. "You did not become angry?"

"No," Ren answered - and then, suddenly, like the sun melting away a storm, a smile broke through every layer of mourning he had worn. It was bittersweet, but genuine in its happiness, radiant enough to turn the bleakness of the words into a benediction. He lifted his head, turning to meet Susabi's gaze directly, not caring to hide despite how he might be judged. "Not in the slightest. It shows that their lives are well without me. That they are now strong enough - and safe enough - on their own. What greater joy exists than that?"

The breeze picked up. It stirred the grove in a slow wave of whispering leaves that built their voices into a chorus, branches lifting together, merging into a tide of sound with no end and no beginning. It shook the sunlight that trickled down through thousands of leaves, sending patchwork shadows dancing across Ren's face. The yōkai did not waver. He sat there, as calm and full of dignity as if he were not surrounded by the wilderness, but by the walls of his own shrine instead: unchanged in his grace, despite the losses that had robbed him of everything else.

 _This_ was the strength that kept Ren going, Susabi realized. This was the answer beneath it all, the truth that Ren had chosen, so absolute that the yōkai himself would crumble first before his faith ever wavered. It was a fierce core that refused to be dimmed, that fueled the determination behind each and every talisman drawn from Ren's very life essence: the sincere belief that the world could truly become _better_ someday, even as the full cost of doing so would go forever unknown and unhonored.

Ren had accepted that fact about the world long ago. He had made his peace with it. His dream kept him from going mad with futility and bitterness, even as he left his heart open for those he knew would misuse it. His compassion did not leave him soft: it had been tempered past the point of steel.

Susabi could no more seek to erase that then he would have snuffed out the sun.

"There was a village once, plagued with storms," he said aloud at last, his words slow and reluctant, stripped of all their inflection. "This village was given a child by the gods, a child who could protect them by giving warnings through divination. And for a time, the village was grateful. But humans forget. When the child's powers weakened, the villagers forgot everything they had been given before, and thought only of what was happening to them at the moment. And so they only saw failure, and blame. Perhaps the time had come that the humans should not have been dependent on divination to safeguard them. But, rather than realize it, they chose to hate that which they thought had been taken away from them, that which they thought they rightfully _deserved_. They chose to blame the child for not being able to give it to them."

Ren absorbed the story quietly, grasping its history within moments as he allowed it to match up to what he knew of Susabi, piece by piece. Once Susabi had finished, he bowed his head - first in sorrow, and then apology, his fingertips sliding together on his worktable in humility. "Even if the village did not need the child any longer, they should not have hurt him for it."

"Even if your village didn't need you," Susabi replied, harsh, "they should have said thanks."

* * *

He couldn't stop. He couldn't. Each tentative piece of Ren's history was a fresh invitation for Susabi to offer up his own. They were laying out their own pains to each other like unrolling skeins of embroidered silk - stories which _should_ have been horrifying, and instead were embraced, smoothed down and called beautiful once more, taken away from the hands that had once mistreated them.

And they _were_ beautiful. Somehow, impossibly, the longer that Susabi spent time with Ren, the more that he found himself able to ease back into parts of his life he had thought forever marred. He could look at a row of amulets, and think only about Ren would be delighted by their shapes. Mochi being prepared for the morning prayer reminded him of Ren's unabashed glee as the yōkai wolfed down another of the snacks, snatching it away from Susabi's own plate and sharing it with their dragons. When Ren was there, the world took on a different sheen: it encompassed only Susabi and a once-god, given a second chance to love the things that had shaped them both.

He couldn't stop. Instead, Susabi found himself revealing even more: more time, more thoughts, more history. He was carving out pieces of himself with each amulet and _ofuda_ because they were the only gifts he had, the only ones that could _matter_ to someone like Ren, because they were intended purely for the yōkai's happiness instead of concealing cries for help. They meant that Ren could simply listen and indulge in his own enjoyment; he could lean into Susabi and relax, not worrying about another person's needs for the space of an evening.

This was the only true gift that Susabi could offer: not asking anything.

And yet, he wanted so much.

It was a fear that refused to be dismissed. All it would take would be for Susabi to present the question - even through the simplest touch on Ren's cheek - and Ren would turn his head up and smile and part his lips for Susabi to take them. He would give permission for anything and _everything_ that Susabi wanted to do to him, because his own body was simply coin that he had to spend; because he'd given up an eye, and was willing to give up even more if it seemed a useful cause. Because if Ren thought, _truly_ thought that it was what Susabi needed, he would share it, no matter how he felt on the inside.

But asking for more would make Susabi no better than the humans who had used Ren - who had insisted that he serve, without thinking of the consequences. It would make Susabi no better than the humans of his _own_ village, who had tried to force Susabi to perform even when he could not, as if his only purpose in life was to give whatever they demanded, and when he could not, his very existence was useless.

The risk was too great. He couldn't add to the list of other people insisting Ren spend his time and energy upon them, particularly not when Ren was already coming so close to permanent harm. It would be safer if Ren could be convinced not to use his power - but he used his energy as recklessly as if he were still a god, exposing himself to nether forces and the greedy alike. And now Susabi himself was sinking into the ranks of the latter, unable to think clearly, because every time he tried, the same craving opened wide like a chasm inside him. He did not know how to save Ren. He did not know how to keep from making things worse.

Still. There was one thing he could manage to do right.

The next time they met, a rainstorm had passed through in the late hours of the night before, and the air was still heavy with moisture. They had settled in to enjoy the hush of the dampened forest under the shelter of a tree, and shared tea from Takamagahara, a chilled barley that Susabi had brewed himself from the streams running through his estate. Ren had praised the clarity of its taste, laughing and asking eagerly for more; Susabi had poured for him again and again, wishing for wine instead of water. When the teapot had run low, they had stretched out on the grasses, using a blanket to ward away the dampness of the soil as they watched clouds migrate slowly across the sky.

The birds were only now starting to stir, calling out snippets of song as they flew from branch to branch, rustling leaves which were still glittering with moisture. Susabi stretched his arms, finding Ren's already nestled beside him; Ren's hand stirred and reached automatically back, running his thumb along Susabi's wrist in slow, soothing strokes. It was such a simple contact, easy and effortless - but already so natural that Susabi could not imagine a time without it. Ren would always be there now, it seemed. Ren would always be there, for as long as Susabi wanted.

Finally, Susabi forced himself to sit up, his nerves already going cold, and pulled his hand away to drop it back resolutely into his own lap.

Ren stirred, concern cutting through the peace of his drowsiness. "What is the matter, Susabi?"

He couldn't find his voice at first. When it came, it felt like a stranger's. "I claim too many luxuries from you."

He could hear the rustle of clothing as Ren rolled over to face him, not yet alarmed enough to question the sudden change. "If anyone has that right, it would be you, Susabi." His reassurance was as placid as if Susabi had been fretting over the weather instead. "It is because of you that I have more years of life to look forward to like this, in strength instead of dwindling further. I know that with you watching over me, there will be someone there, should I descend further and be claimed by corruption or madness."

 _You could be a god with your own followers, and need none of what I provide_ , Susabi's mind supplied treacherously. But his own honor refused to let him stay silent. "If I truly performed that duty, then I would be restoring you to a shrine," he pointed out, finally glancing over his shoulder to see Ren's perplexed frown. "This alone will not keep you sustained forever. Not at the rate you are going."

To his credit, Ren did not deny the possibility. He sat up fully, shaking away his weariness; a yawn slipped through long enough for him to cover it with the back of his hand, unhurried and unguarded. Reaching out, he began to smooth away the strands of Susabi's hair from where they had caught along his clothing, untangling them with long strokes of his fingers. "One day, there may be humans who need me again like that, Susabi," he counseled. "As you keep telling me, now is simply not that time. But when and if it comes again, _you_ will be why I will be able to answer that call. I would not be able to do that without the aid you have provided. Surely, you can see how much you have helped."

It was tempting to accept the comfort: of words, of promises, of confidence. Ren's hands were gentle as they gathered Susabi's hair back, sweeping it aside so that they could each have a better view of one another's faces. Susabi shivered under the touch. But the possibility of gratitude only made it worse: if Ren thought he _owed_ Susabi, that his support might serve as a form of repayment, then Susabi was doing little better than to force the yōkai to trade affection for his very life.

"Ren," he said, focusing on that distaste to reinforce his own discipline. "You should not offer me such trust. I, too, could be someone who simply seeks to use you thoughtlessly, serving only my own needs."

The seriousness of his tone finally made it through. Ren paused, his hands arrested in their motions as the yōkai regarded Susabi for a long moment. "You hate such things." It was not a question. "You would be on guard against them."

"Watchfulness alone doesn't make me immune."

"Yet, it would hurt you immensely to become the very thing that you detest." With the same road-weary patience that allowed the yōkai to see past the claims of a hundred mortal villages, Ren addressed Susabi's concerns point-by-point without yielding. "For that reason, I know you would be vigilant against it. And I am responsible to watch over my _own_ limits. The only creature who can do that is myself - and I will not neglect that, not when I know forgetting would do you harm. _Susabi_ ," he repeated, bracing one of his hands against the blanket so that he could lean forward, lean _in_ , and Susabi couldn't breathe, couldn't _think_. He couldn't feel _anything_ , anything save a desire so overwhelming that it felt as if it would burn him alive to accept its existence, exposing him as having no more self-control than the very humans he scorned. He'd imagined it countless times on his own already. To finally reach out at last, and lose himself under Ren's touch - to stop _fighting_ , to simply let matters happen without thought of how it would make things worse in the end.

He forced himself to look past Ren instead, at the clouds fanning indifferently overhead, blocking out all awareness of the other spirit any way he could.

"I can't," he finally managed aloud. "I can't trust myself."

Ren deftly cut through to the heart of it without pause, laying it open like a tumor under the knife. "And could you trust me?"

The polite answer would have been yes. It would have been a lie. "No," Susabi admitted. It felt like drowning again, but not in the smothering peace of a prayer: this was the ocean cold around him and in his lungs, nature itself eager to see him end his life. "If I asked you to give up your other eye for me, would you?" he pointed out, aware of how hurtful his answer already was. "Or if you thought it would help me, even if I did not ask outright?"

He did not know how much longer he could endure Ren's presence so close by, but thankfully, Ren saw his tension and yielded the space first. Laying formality like a peace treaty between them, the yōkai slid away, tucking his legs into a kneel. His fingers folded themselves safely in his lap, touching nothing and no one else. "Yes."

"And your hands? Your feet, your tongue? All of those?"

"Yes," Ren said again, softly, without hesitation. "If I had cause to believe it would make the difference."

He had to ask. He knew the answer, but the question came out like the last stones of an avalanche, cruel and uncompromising. "And your life?"

"Yes," came a third time, and then, "but I know you never would let it get to that point, Susabi. You would give up your own eye first, if you could, before you ever asked that of me." Ren straightened his shoulders, as composed as a scholar called to testify at a trial. His chin was up; his horns arched towards the sky. "If you took advantage of me, and became the kind of person you dread, it would wound you beyond measure. I _know_ this. It is as much my responsibility to prevent that - not yours. So let me have this much, please, for just a short while," he insisted. "Take peace in that, and in this."

It was easier to talk now that they were sitting further apart; even so, something was going wrong, _terribly_ wrong, and Susabi couldn't gather his logic together coherently, couldn't make things line up properly so that Ren would nod along and agree to all of Susabi's arguments. He was losing track of all his thoughts in his desperation not to allow Ren an avenue with which to hurt himself. "If you have to safeguard me at _all_ , then I am neglecting my own duties," he gritted out. "If I do not have the strength, it should not be all on _your_ shoulders to bear."

Despite the tension in his shoulders, Ren's expression betrayed nothing. His voice was gentle, patient - yet analytical, as if something in him had already pulled away, hiding behind an opaque shield as impenetrable as any of his talismans. "That is a risk we all endure, Susabi," he claimed softly, his voice firm and resolute. "That is what I am prepared for. It was my purpose as a god, and it is the shape of what I am now, as a yōkai." He hesitated. When he spoke again, his calm had not lessened - but a frown came and went almost instantly, a twinge of resignation so quickly restrained that Susabi almost missed it entirely. "Let it... let it be that way. Let me enjoy this much, for as long as we can."

It was tempting. It was too tempting, to close his eyes and indulge only in what he wanted, to fool himself into thinking that he knew Ren well enough to watch over him. To take the route that would allow him to mindlessly accept the comfort Ren was offering like this, and utterly blind him to any signs that the yōkai might ever want anything else.

Susabi had only to pull Ren to him, and then he would be free to roll the yōkai down into the softness of the blanket, press him against the grass, and indulge in the relief of pleasure. They would lose all track of time and indulge in the moment. They would forget about everything that could go wrong, and focus simply on what felt right.

And that would be it. They would be happy - or Susabi would be - and he would allow himself to stop worrying. To stop watching himself. To simply accept, and become complacent, and assume he would notice any problems long before they soured into rot.

And then - then he would wake up one day and suddenly realize just how _tired_ Ren looked, or how the silences between them were getting longer and longer, how ideas were going more often unvoiced. How discussions would end faster. How Ren would laugh less. Smile only when expected. Protest less. Argue never.

How Ren might always answer, _whatever you want_ , whenever his opinion was asked.

"No," Susabi declared, scorning the easy way out. "There's _more_ to you. You chose this existence as a yōkai because it gave you the chance to stay alive and help others - not because _you_ need to feel needed. Otherwise, you would have never left the first village that clamoured for enough favors. You and I both agree that the drive to protect others _should_ exist in the world," he added, desperately attempting to temper the harshness of his words into a plea. "But whenever you cannot see that in human hearts, you choose to _become_ it until they learn. You give away your power each time - and then you force yourself to heal simply so you can do it all over again. And because it's what people need at the time, you don't protest, do you? Because you know you can survive it. _You_ pay the price for them, telling yourself that it's just until they can be strong enough to pay for themselves. But that time doesn't always come. In fact," Susabi added, regretting the accusation even as he voiced it, "has it _ever?_ "

He did not know what else he could say. His courage felt as if it had abandoned him with each faltering word, even as Ren had weathered the attack without complaint, his spine as straight as if a knife blade had been pressed against his skin. Susabi should have been able to deliver his points with anger, with righteousness against the injustices of the world. Instead, it felt as if he was carving each word into his own ribs, bleeding into his breath.

He could only imagine how Ren had heard it.

"My village," the yōkai affirmed at last, softly. "It came for them."

"Your eye tells a different story, Ren."

"But it brought them there." Rallying his strength on that point of defense, Ren glanced up to meet Susabi's gaze, his mouth struggling to firm in a solid line. "It helped them reach a point where they do not need me in their lives right now. And that _does_ make me happy, beyond all words," he repeated. "Should they ever require my assistance again, I will be there, but it brings peace to my heart to know they do not need me yet. Even if I am never able to accomplish anything else with my life, I will always, _truly_ , be glad for that."

"And if you're saying that my only options are to ignore what you need, or to allow you to _sacrifice_ part of yourself in exchange for my _no longer needing you_ ," Susabi parried icily, "then I refuse to accept _either._ "

Ren's eyes had gone wide by the end of Susabi's ultimatum, startled; his composure had paled, broken entirely out of his defenses by the unexpected challenge. "Susabi," he said, sounding equally desperate. His head made a short, abrupt shake of denial. "That should not be your concern. Just... please, think about yourself, and what you would enjoy most. That would make me happiest. Don't worry about the rest."

 _Don't worry._ How many times had Ren said that - and how many times had people accepted him only at face value, Susabi wondered. How long had people taken Ren for granted in so many ways, assuming his meekness to mean naivety, his apologies to mean personal shame, his willingness to sacrifice seen as a byproduct of self-worthlessness? To have people think that Ren cared so little for himself that giving his life away meant nothing to him, _nothing_ , because humans couldn't conceive of any other choice: to have humans and spirits alike vilifying Ren's efforts because it justified their own lack of effort?

How often had Ren also been disappointed by the things that he loved?

And Ren had tolerated it. He had shut his own hopes away, just as Susabi had. He had acknowledged that people would not change. He had accepted everyone else assigning him motivations that diminished him, to always be the one to give a little more from his side: to be thought of as innocent or simple, that he was fulfilling a selfish need of his own simply by _helping_ , while his real wishes went unheard and unacknowledged. He had resigned himself to never being seen clearly, to people accepting his aid, but not the intent behind it.

He had given up on anyone looking deeper into his nature, at what truly mattered to him - just like Susabi had. He had given up a long time ago, and believed that there would never be a way out.

"Ren," Susabi began tentatively, even as the yōkai's shoulders jerked at the sound, still stricken. "Everything you've said - everything you've shown is that you want humans to someday learn how to create their happiness on their own. That's why you're sad about your village, but you _don't_ hold a grudge. They grew to independence, and you miss them, but you're not angry about it, because they're doing _exactly_ what you want." He hesitated, almost stopping there, but it was already too late; he had flayed open both of their souls as casually as a butcher, and now the consequences could not be escaped. "How many times have the very people you've helped dismissed the wish in _your_ heart, Ren? Can you say it truly makes you happy to have your hopes ignored? To have people take your help, and treat the rest of you as unnecessary?"

He knew how deeply he had hit the mark by way of Ren's silence. The yōkai drew in a long, trembling breath, closing his eyes; when he opened them again, he could not meet Susabi's gaze.

"Susabi," was all he said at last, and in that instant, Susabi knew that every accusation he had uttered had been correct. "When did you realize?"

"When I looked." The truth should have been a balm. Instead, it etched like raw acid in Susabi's throat. "When I looked at _you_ , Ren, not at what you could do _for_ me."

Gentler souls would have found a better way to use their words as gutting tools. But Susabi lacked that tact, and it was far too late now to try and mimic it. He saw Ren's head bow, lower and lower by fractional degrees, his hair shifting to shadow both his eyes and blot the gold entirely into black.

"You cannot blame them for their reluctance," the yōkai shared at last. His voice was flat, toneless - as if he was afraid that having dreams of his own would make Susabi value him any less. "All you can do is give, and hope."

"Perhaps, but that does not mean _I_ have to repeat their mistakes," Susabi insisted. The words hurt to come out, as if he was feeling his way through a hallway of knives whose blades lanced him with every step. He was talking wildly now, staring into the world without seeing it, seeing only the blackness of the ocean at night, the icy liquid crawling into his nose and mouth and down his throat. "Ren. I will _not_ be like them. I will _not_ become another creature that leaves you marked, all because of my own carelessness. You might trust that I never will take advantage - but that simply forces the responsibility into _your_ hands. If I can't trust my needs, then the only thing I can do is refuse to need things at _all_ from you. I won't let myself. I _can't_ let myself. I will _not be like them._ "

He was facing blindly towards the sky at this point, making promises that felt like lies, over and over, condemning him with each self-denial. His own conviction was shaking inside him - a conviction he had never truly considered until this moment, because it had never needed to be put into words. Just as Ren could endure because of his faith that the world could change, so, too, did Susabi survive because he believed the same: that people could be different than the village that had killed him, that they could be _better_ , and his _own_ life would prove it. His own ability to follow a stricter discipline meant that humans had no excuse for ignoring the same. If he could embody it, and prove it was real, then they could not claim its impossibility.

Like Ren, Susabi kept that standard alive through himself - but now that he was forced against it, he did not know how long he could measure up. Failure would mean more than just a mistake that might harm Ren.

It would mean that everything Susabi believed about himself was as false as the hearts of his villagers.

He jerked when he felt a touch on his neck, startled out of the horror that had enveloped him whole. When he looked down, he saw Ren's hands there, the tips of the yōkai's fingers resting lightly against his jaw.

"Susabi," the spirit murmured - and that was all Ren had strength for, it seemed, for his mouth kept turning down, hard and tight. Then he rallied. "In my mind, you have never been the one asking for anything. _I_ have been the one making selfish demands. And you have granted me everything, and more." A smile struggled through once, a brief and flickering expression that vanished like a butterfly in winter. "But not if it costs this much from you. Not if it makes you doubt yourself, and become afraid that each word you say might be a hidden weapon."

His fingers lifted further, whispering up along Susabi's cheeks, as if the boundary of skin between them was so fragile that Ren feared to tear it like a spiderweb. "I am sorry, Susabi. I knew it was hard on you to spend the time you did with me. You brought blessings back into my life by giving me a place where I could remember the things I treasured so much again. Yet, by doing so, I allowed myself to continue hurting you. I never meant to let it go so far. Please forgive me," he continued quietly, cupping Susabi's face now in both his palms, the heat of his body a mere shadow of how each word seared. "I thought, only one more day, only _one_ more, and I would stop asking things of you. And each time, I could not. I thought eventually, you would have to be called back to your greater work, and you would forget about me soon enough. I wanted - I wanted as many memories as I could hold, when that day came."

The yōkai's smile returned, but it was openly pained now, sorrowing with each fresh word. "But... I have been beyond unfair to you, Susabi. You have been so gracious to me, and I have repaid you by forcing you to doubt and restrain yourself. The position I have put you in is impossible. I will not make you feel as if you must watch yourself like a prisoner. You have endured enough suffering in your life. I will not insist on more."

He paused then, and gathered himself to his feet, the bells on his cloak jingling like the cries of a mourning bird. "You said you will ask for nothing from me, but there is still something I will offer," he finished softly. "I will give you freedom from myself."

"Ren," Susabi finally managed to voice aloud, panic struggling through the numbness. His chest was in a vise; he was being crushed by a giant's hand, by all the pressure of the ocean's depths. His ribs were being crumpled into the smallest grains of sand. "Ren. _Don't._ "

But the yōkai refused to stop. Taking only a few steps forward, he leaned down and kissed Susabi, chaste and gentle on the forehead: a slow kiss that ended reluctantly, his breath whispering on Susabi's skin, as if each second of time between them had already started to dwindle into the forgetting of myth.

"Goodbye, Lord Susabi," Ichimoku Ren said quietly, stepping back at last. "And thank you."

* * *

 _Lord Susabi is angry_ , the gods whispered in Takamagahara. _He stares and remains silent during councils, even when questions are asked of him. He declines to offer his thoughts. He no longer speaks of the shrines. He must be angry._

But anger was the furthest thing from Susabi's mind. Every other emotion had crowded it out, filling up Susabi like a bowl overbrimming until the slightest tap of the table risked the contents to spill. His chest hurt all the time now. His heart hurt. He had lost the love of his villagers and then he had lost his home and his mortal life, and now he was losing things _again_ , and he could not stop it this time either.

He had gone back up to Takamagahara mindlessly after Ren had vanished into the fields, immersed himself in his work, and had promptly been nauseous for a week.

Because Ren had been _right_. Susabi was the one refusing to take the easy route and simply, blindly trust Ren; he was doing it to _himself_ , insisting on an impossible standard of perfectly reading Ren's needs and blocking both Ren and himself from any missteps. Just as Ren blamed himself for not finding the single, effective method for encouraging humanity, Susabi was taking the same degree of pressure onto his own shoulders, knowing the impossibility of success and berating himself anyway.

They had both been through enough in their lifetimes. If they could not find a way to keep the past from repeating, even with each other - perhaps it was better this way.

He tried to convince himself of this, over and over, even as it felt more hollow each time.

History was a paralyzing weight. The spiritual starvation of Ren's village was no less cruel in its own way than the lashes and beatings from Susabi's own hometown. The idea of one day echoing the same neglect and abuse out of his own mouth made him recoil, all the more so because he would be so far gone at that point that he doubted he would even realize it.

Ren was not the only spirit who had been badly used by humans; there were many _amatsu-kami_ who never wished to be enshrined again. Despite that, there were an overwhelming number who remained devoted to helping humanity even when they knew the futility of it - but Ren was the only one Susabi had met who had experienced something so similar, and had come out on the other side still clinging just as strongly to his beliefs. Each of them had encouraged the other, like two trees leaning on each other while their branches reached up for the sky. They had asked after each other's limits. They had spoken up when they had encountered discomfort. They had watched each other carefully, respectfully; they had put each other first.

It was a lonely road, full of discouragement - and Ren had made it easier by being able to talk with him, by _being_ with him, because they were both able to embody the choice untaken for each other, the doubts that Susabi didn't have to entertain because Ren was trying those methods anyway.

They might have both been lost in searching for the best way to guide humanity, but at least they had been lost _together._

He pushed through his work methodically, staring at line after line of reports, scrolls unfurled on his worktables in sterile analysis of the worlds. All he could think of was Ren bleeding out somewhere at the hands of yet another foolish, selfish batch of humans that wouldn't even care to learn enough of his name to thank him in the briefest prayer. All he could remember of the yōkai's smile was the resolute expression on his face as the spirit turned to leave Susabi behind, going off to be killed a hundred ways over until he finally couldn't pick himself up one last time. His bones would be forgotten in a remote corner of the country. His dragon would be a withered husk.

No matter how much time that Susabi could convince himself that he was giving the yōkai by staying away, in the end, it would never be enough.

He finally forced himself to participate during one of the councils, speaking up over a minor matter regarding a few netherworld rifts in the northern Tohoku region. All the other gods stammered as they fell in line to agree. Susabi didn't even remember what he had said, only half his attention on the conversation; he might have ordered them to double the guard, or remove it altogether. He couldn't find enough enthusiasm to care.

Afterwards, one of the gods caught his sleeve as they were dispersing back to their own offices. "It is so good to hear your opinions again, Lord Susabi," she ventured slyly, using her fan to wave slow beats of air across her face. Her hair rippled in lazy coils; the serpent tucked among them kept peeking suspiciously at Susabi, its tongue flickering out to taste the breeze. "Your authority in these matters does much to guide our defenses. And how is, mmm, your _personal_ project going? I'd heard you were trying to restore a yōkai to godhood. If anyone could succeed, I am certain _you_ would be capable, my lord."

News of the rumor mill only sparked dull interest through Susabi's daze. He should not have been surprised that there had been gossip, what with his frequent disappearances down to the mortal world. He made a perfunctory shake of his head. "No. He's safer as only a yōkai. It would be best if he were never to become enshrined again."

The god nodded smugly, assuming inadequacy on the part of what she believed to be a lesser spirit, and swept on.

Susabi skipped the next three assemblies in a row.

The weeks turned. Susabi stayed in Takamagahara. He pulled the blinds closed on every window in his estate, unable to bear seeing the skies. The moon counted down each month in a merciless devouring of time. In the mortal world, the seasons would be shifting in an endless march forward, grinding humans down into dust.

In the mortal world, Ren might already be dead.

Susabi tried to focus on his duties. He performed horribly.

His workrooms were sullen and quiet, gloomy without fresh air and light. The paperwork had stacked up, scrolls left haphazardly open. His main table was a mess of tasks left undone. He shoved the trays aside in an attempt to clear space, and nearly knocked everything off - including the _shimenawa_ hanging forlornly on its stand.

Cursing his own carelessness, Susabi caught it before it could topple over. He reached up and touched the braid carefully with a finger, running his finger along the fibers, trying to reassure himself that it was still intact.

"I won't add to that cycle," he whispered to it, trying to will his determination back into force, into a cold logic that would give him strength. "I won't take the risk of hurting you."

In his mind, he could almost hear Ren's voice echoing back, patient no matter how long the argument ran: _If we do not even give them the chance to begin with, then how will they recognize moments of choice when they come?_

Susabi's hand froze.

It _had_ been a moment of choice for him. But only two paths had been present in his mind at the time: to either join the torrent of voices demanding things from Ren, or keep him safe by refraining altogether. It had seemed so clear at that moment. If Susabi could not be confident in his own self-control, then he did not dare to tempt it.

But _he_ had been the only one insisting on his own powerlessness. He had balked at the very start. When presented with the possibility of following in the footsteps of both their villages, Susabi had come to a full stop. There was nothing noble in the decision; if Susabi was afraid of repeating exactly what his own village had done to him, then this was simply another form of it. This was letting someone _else_ die because Susabi was too afraid to find out if he was strong enough to stand on his own.

He had always tried to be above the same humans who had killed him. Now, he was refusing to test himself to see if he actually _was._

 _How many times have the people you've helped dismissed the wishes in_ _ **your**_ _heart_ , he'd asked. And then, in his arrogance, Susabi had done precisely that. Ren had given him the opportunity to see if he could stand strong in his own beliefs, and he had flung it back in the spirit's face. He had laid out Ren's soul and rejected him in nearly the same breath, deciding that there was only one way to keep the yōkai safe.

To keep them _both_ safe. _That_ had been the true root of it all.

Susabi sank into his chair, digging the heels of his hands against his forehead as the bitter clarity of truth rushed in.

The possibility of making a mistake with Ren had seemed so unimaginable that he'd shied away entirely. But it had been his _own_ pain that Susabi had thought about most, couched under Ren's as a pretense - _his_ terror at becoming something that he wasn't sure he could ever forgive in himself. He'd been given the chance. And he'd said no, just like so many of the humans that Ren had tried to help, because he'd defaulted to the same degree of excuses: that he simply wasn't _capable_ , that it wasn't his _nature_ , and so creatures like Ren were admirable, but impossible to match.

And Ren - true to form - Ren had taken the responsibility onto his own shoulders, like drinking a cup of poisoned wine at a table fast enough that no one else would have a chance to taste even a drop. He was making himself pay the price, because Susabi hadn't wanted to.

Susabi had made a promise. And Ren had watched as it had immediately been ripped apart, piece by piece, right in front of him - and then he had lowered his head in acceptance, as elegantly as if he had been kneeling on the banks of a river, waiting patiently for an execution.

Susabi shook his head, dismissing the image along with his uncertainty. "I refuse," he whispered again, to the empty air of his workroom. He reached out to the _shimenawa_ a second time, gently caressing the braid with the back of his knuckle, as he might have once touched the face of its crafter. "I refuse to be like them."

He pushed himself to his feet.

* * *

A simple divination pinpointed Ren's location in the south of San'you, drifting along the coastline near Shikoku. The reason was clear enough for his wandering: he was deep in the wilderness where several rifts to the netherworld simmered, continually bubbling over with energies. None of them were volatile enough to warrant emergency action. Wards had been established long ago, and merely needed maintenance.

But power still leaked through. A fresh wave had congealed near the ocean like a knot of fat clouds, gathering strength before it would inevitably drift towards human settlements, and Susabi guessed at Ren's intent even before he confirmed the yōkai's proximity.

He could feel the two powers in conflict as soon as he stepped into the human world, the energies as heavy as a thunderstorm that had glutted itself on a week of summer heat. The unyielding pressure of Ren's talismans felt like a wall painted on the sky itself - a literal one, Susabi realized, as he suddenly noticed the stillness of the air where an ocean breeze should have been, the waves muffled in their perpetual roar.

Lacking his former power, the yōkai could not purify the nether force directly - but he _could_ imprison it in place as the winds that would have carried the pollution onwards exhausted their strength. Blocked from their course, the energies bled away harmlessly into the air, washed clean by sky and shore. Ren and his dragon worked in practiced, efficient tandem, _ofuda_ whirling like a flurry of golden insects as the two of them faced what seemed like an endless tide, and refused to yield any ground.

Somewhere, a village would be spared because of what Ren was doing today. Somewhere, a stranger would not sicken: would not weaken, not wither, not die.

The nether force was pinned down, but it would take hours to finish spinning out its wrath. Susabi could already see the barrier of winds straining, slipping at the edges and forced to push itself continually back into place. Every time the clouds bulged past, Ren bowed his shoulders and leaned forward, wrestling the power from his own soul to drive them away once more.

Planting his feet firmly, Susabi lifted his own hand, and called the stars down from the heavens.

Divine fire took shape joyously around him, forming comets that flung themselves gleefully towards destruction. They roared through the sky like molten hail, unerringly soaring past Ren while leaving both him and his dragon untouched. The stormfront shattered in a series of moonlit bursts as the stars ripped its belly open and ruthlessly chased down the remains. The remnants of its energy dispersed harmlessly under the force of the explosions. Each star burst further into chains of light that danced through the air with a firework's giddy abandon - and Ren turned in surprise, pulling his arms tightly around himself as if he expected to be next.

Then he recognized Susabi, and the shifting of his expression - transforming from uncertainty into raw, desperate yearning - was all the answer Susabi needed.

The distance between them was no wider than a courtyard. Susabi destroyed that too, crossing the grass in long steps until he had gathered Ren up in his arms, hearing Ren's voice whisper his name over and over. His hand cradled the back of Ren's head; his fingers tangled in pale hair. Every excuse he might have harbored had been scattered along with the clouds, abandoned to the ocean, as Susabi held Ren tight to him and gulped down huge breaths of air that tasted only of fresh, clean wind, and nothing at all of sorrow.

* * *

He came back to his wits painfully, like a drunkard, clutching at Ren as if the yōkai were the only thing keeping him from dying a second time. Neither one of them had wanted to let go, tightening their grip every time the other person's weight had shifted. Inevitably, Susabi's balance had suffered, gravity finally refusing to be ignored; when he reluctantly straightened up, loosening his hands from Ren's shoulders, he almost lost all sense of willpower again at the sight of Ren looking back up at him, golden eyes so familiar and so close.

And then Ren pulled him back down and kissed him, carefully, delicately, giving Susabi plenty of time to pull away if that was what he desired.

It wasn't. Susabi kissed back, hungrily, refusing to second-guess his own wishes this time, accepting Ren's permission - and then kept kissing Ren, trying to be careful around the yōkai's horns, until he finally gave up and pulled Ren down to the ground with him. sitting on the grass as he tugged Ren into his lap. Their knees tangled clumsily, Ren making a surprised, delighted yelp as Susabi leaned back and pulled the yōkai over onto him, no height concerns now that neither one of them were standing.

He touched his lips carefully to Ren's face, his neck, allowing his fingers to slide over the other spirit reverently, memorizing each inch. Ren's caution mirrored Susabi's own; they traded unspoken questions of permission, each touch slow as their hands explored each other, both of them asking and receiving with every careful tug of their robes, exposing skin to the air, to the sun, to each other.

And then Ren stretched up, laughing softly, his eyes full of affection as his hair spilled across Susabi's shoulders. He smiled down at Susabi, sliding a hesitant hand along the waist of Susabi's outer robe, fingers dipping between it and the layers underneath - before pausing and looking back up at him in a silent question.

Susabi kissed him hard in response, pulling at his own clothing in an attempt to get it off and only yanking the robe clumsily against his own belly. Ren laughed again - the sound almost unbearably sweet - and slid both his palms up over Susabi's chest like a blessing, like benevolence, as if Ren was smoothing away every fear and concern Susabi had ever entertained as easily as he pushed off the rest of Susabi's robes, baring his shoulders to the sky.

But when Ren reached down towards his waist again, Susabi shook his head, catching the yōkai's hand - his first refusal. "Wait. Just for now," he reassured, to dispel the concern in Ren's expression, and pulled his hand up to press Ren's fingers against his lips. Both of them were already sweaty and sticky, and there were better places to rut than on the ground in the wilderness; never mind that they had been doing _exactly_ that, regardless. "I need to tell you something first."

Nodding, still recovering his breath, Ren sat back, his composure pulled on deftly despite how his clothes were disheveled, unraveled in a tangle of gold and blue around his waist. Thankfully, his dragon had left them both in peace; Susabi had dim memories of it flitting away, while his own had been left behind in Takamagahara again. It made it easier to speak with just the two of them there - but not by much.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate on anything except for the warmth of Ren's body against him. "Ren. If there is anything in this human world I would protect, it would be you. If you become a god again, and humans neglect you once more, I will destroy their village _myself_ to save you from them until another village is worth receiving you. I will do this over and over, as I protect all the spirits in Takamagahara and help bring balance to this world, and I swear I will always include you first in my domain. I promise you this, Ichimoku Ren," he added fiercely, aware of the years of broken trust that lay like bones in both their histories. To fall short now in sincerity would be unforgivable. Shallow assurances had filled both their lives; Susabi knew how keenly a frivilous vow would hurt.

Refusing to surrender to his own fear again, he cupped Ren's chin, keeping his attention fixed on the yōkai. "And I also promise that you will _not_ have to grant me whatever patience it takes until I finally trust myself not to take advantage of you. That is _my_ responsibility. You should not pay the price while you wait. But I _will_ succeed, Ren. I will do better than all the people who haven't even tried in the past. I will honor the effort that you want to see in this world - and I _will_ believe in you."

Ren managed to keep his composure for all but the end of Susabi's words. His gaze finally dropped, but the wavering smile that blossomed on his face was warm. "I didn't want to let you go," he admitted. "I could do it for my village. I could accept relinquishing myself, and my divinity. But for you... I thought that _this_ would be the loss that would define the rest of my existence forever as a yōkai." He closed his eyes long enough to press his cheek into Susabi's touch; then, opening them once more, he caught Susabi's hand and placed a kiss against his palm, as softly as a secret.

"In all the years to come," he confessed into Susabi's skin, so quietly that it was nearly lost under the sound of the ocean waves, "I was certain that when I would think back to the one moment I lost something I would regret forever, it would have been the day I walked away from you."

Ren stopped there, and then - ignoring all restraint - tugged Susabi back towards him, his kiss as hungry as if he were making up for a hundred missed opportunities. Even when he paused for air, he refused to release Susabi entirely, fingers pressing tight against skin, along Susabi's ribs, guiding his body until the yōkai had slid back across Susabi's lap and was looking down at him with defiant affection.

" _Musubi_ involves both giving and taking," he announced, his voice far calmer than the flush on his cheeks betrayed. "That's how souls flourish in balance. So here is my promise for you, Susabi. For everything you take from me, I will take something back as well. And whatever I offer to you will come because you offered _me_ something first." He started to lean in again, and Susabi found himself automatically yielding, his whole weight tilting towards that warmth - but then the yōkai lifted his chin, unwilling to leave the full matter unaddressed. "As I am safe with you, so too you will be safe with me. For as long as that understanding exists... will you accept it, Susabi? Will you accept me? That you can trust yourself in my care, always, and I will never be lost in yours?"

Chuckling, Susabi caught and pulled the yōkai down until he could kiss him once, twice, again and again, relishing the sweetness of everything he could hold - everything that was given to him, and everything he could give.

"Yes," he vowed, and it felt like a prayer, the most important one of all: an invocation to Ren in every breath.


End file.
